Death Would Be Simpler to Deal With
by Neftzer
Summary: NOW COMPLETE. A season-long narrative that takes the lemons of Season Two's finale and attempts to make lemonade by re-uniting lovers, righting wrongs, and giving an extraordinary series the epic finale it deserves. All, esp. Allan; Carter, the King & OCs
1. The season begins

Skip below the line to proceed directly to the story.

**Summary:** *NOW COMPLETE* A season-long narrative that takes the lemons of Season Two's finale and attempts to make them into lemonade by re-uniting lovers, righting wrongs, punishing the bad, rewarding the good, and giving an extraordinary series the epic finale it deserves.  
As well as telling a new story, it is rich in flashbacks to series and pre-series moments, stretching as far back as to when Much is but nine years old. If there was ever something referenced in the first two seasons of the show that you've wondered about, imagined on, it's probably addressed here with a flashback.  
Starring all those we've come to love and know in Sherwood and Nottingham. Robin and Marian front and center, and further in, especially Allan-A-Dale; Less-frequent series characters Edward of Knighton, Carter, and King Richard, Queen Eleanor, Count Booby & various OCs [including Robin's father Robert, Earl of Huntingdon].

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**Author's Note:**_The following is my version of what a season (having nothing to do with the Season Three actually shown) following Season Two's finale should have/could have been. I don't consider it Alternate Universe, since it treats the entirety of the previous two seasons as canon. [With the exception that there are one or two unintentional mistakes regarding canon events.]  
It is probably important to say that it is written unconventionally (and even for myself uncharacteristically, if you are a frequent reader of mine), with portions of brisk summary going into designated **SCENE**s. Hopefully this does not come off as too clumsy._

It is somewhere between an abstract of a season, and a screenplay. Hopefully it shows itself for what it is: a way to relate the bulk of an entire season (13 episodes), complete with backstory, written in a way I like to think Foz and Dom handled the treatment for the first season as they discussed on the DVD extras of that season. Further Author's Notes/Indulgent Points of Interest for this work, general and divided by section title, may be found in my author profile until such a time as I move them here.

This is (though I didn't know it would be at the time) dedicated to Marjatta_, who, if you visit the reviews page, you will note faithfully and consistently encouraged me through her comments and postings (for a long time the only reader who did so), from the beginning to the sweet and satisfying end of this epic journey. Thank you. You made my day more than once both fictionally and non-fictionally._

* * *

**The Season begins:** Robin in grief, Sherwood and Nottinghamshire trying to get back into the groove after the outlaws' absence (and re-alignment, without D'Jaq and Will), and the Sheriff's absence.

Various adventures in outlawry ensue, including re-apportioning of burnt-out Knighton Hall and the surrounding village of Knighton to Gisborne to re-build (adding to his lands), or perhaps to outfit for the Sheriff's beloved garrison. After all, with Marian dead, Sir Edward her father dead and proven traitor to the Sheriff, and Edward's two sons, long-since dead, the land and its serfs are up for grabs. And ripe for use (or mis-use, as may be).

This general action carries us to episode three or four where being in the environs of Knighton gives Robin certain memories of his past there with Marian.

Sherwood grows close to the Hall (it always has), and Gisborne has had it cut back and cleared for security reasons, and is using it as a military parade ground, which puts Robin _quite_ out of sorts...

* * *

**SCENE**: Knighton Hall at night. Robin visits secretly to see the damage done to his forest, and in a way, his heart. More than several large fires burn, wastefully (of course) consuming the cut-back timber and brush the villagers could have cured and used for heat (and other necessities) in the coming winter.

Guards stand nearby, tasked with watching that the fires do not get out of hand. The ink-like darkness of Sherwood that even the fires' light cannot cut into deters them from seeing Robin standing but a few feet from them, yet ideologically, miles away.

Robin's point of view:  
He looked at the fires, their great blaze conquering the forest's edge for now. He would never care to see the land treated so carelessly, nor its resources. It was a large patch they had shorn of his (that is, of Marian's) land: _Knighton_. So now, also his. His to protect and guard. Yet too late he had arrived.

Everything seemed to come too late anymore. He wanted to feel angry, not regretful. He tried to will the outrage to come, to take over his spinning mind and narrow his thoughts, jumbled as they were. Wasn't that why he had come alone? To focus his thoughts? He stared deep and hard into the changing colors of the largest inferno, but instead of rage he was met with impossible nostalgia for a night long past. A night he had not thought on since his time away on Crusade... 


	2. If you can't stand the heat

**SCENE**: Flashback. Same place, different time. Night, pre-Crusade, Robin and Marian are in their late teens.  
Swooping, birds-eye view: large bonfires light the shireside, blazing into the dark night as though a giant has smashed holes in the landscape, deep into the earth's burning molten core. In contrast, sedate torches line a path to Knighton Hall. Nobles for many leagues have come to attend Edward, the Sheriff of Nottingham's party, held the same night as the serf's pagan revels (the bonfires are theirs). It is not quite fully autumnal, but the night is a bit chill. Ash dances in the flame's smoke. The feel of the night is portentous; the wind stirs invigorating goosebumps of the unknown.

[Begin Marian's POV]  
At the Hall, Marian has been released from further welcoming guests, and she is found in the kitchens, checking on the night's feast. Her dress is rather ornate, and keeps getting in the way of the necessary bustle of activity around her.

"Gwyn! Gwyn!" she shouts over the din, trying to get the attention of Knighton's chatelaine, from whom she needs something.

Even in the chaos and jostle around her, Marian feels immediately when the waist seam of her gown rips roughly open. In the rush and press of activity, someone has stepped on her hem and caused the damage.

Her gown is ruined, the expensive, delicate fabric shredding in her hands; irreparable. Flush with outrage, she wheels to confront the oaf of a servant who has spoilt it.

But behind her, trying to stealthily navigate the narrow space between her and the kitchen wall is no servant, but a somewhat cowed Robin of Locksley, himself in an interesting state of undress. Still gangly from his coming-on-quickly height, but more comfortable in his skin of late, he is more than half out of his oversherte and other party finery, revealing the rough plainness of peasant's clothes below. He was obviously trying to shed the less-familiar-to-him costume of nobility whilst also making for the kitchen door to leave. His departure from the party's earliest moments seems to have gone as he planned, largely unobserved, at least by his father, the Earl.

For a moment surprise dampens Marian's anger. Robin's eyebrows pull into an apology, even as he sloughs off the last of his outer garments. Her surprise passed, she begins to fume on a slow simmer.

"Come with?" he encouraged her in the same tone as that of an apology he was not sure she would accept.

"You only ask me because I've caught you out!" she accused, not sure how to react to him. His quick eyes seemed to register four emotions at once: remorse for getting caught, fear of getting caught by someone more important, and twinkling excitement over the adventure. Perhaps also a desperate dread to be away from the Hall and its party. She did not know which signal to give precedence.

He went on as though she had not spoken, asking curiously, "Do you know where Jeremy keeps his trousers?"

_Jeremy? Their groom?_ "His what?" _And what was this expression now? Mischief? Delight?_ She could hardly keep up.

"Well, you can't very well come like that."

_Come? With him?_

A more deliberate bustle erupted from the main house. Someone important was coming toward the kitchens. Servants began to part and make way.

Robin grabbed her hand. She tried to snatch it back, but he lunged forward into the fray and toward the door, and her feet betrayed her. She ran.

Finally, free to give her attention to Marian, Gwyn turned just in time to see the firelight glance off the backs of the two no-longer-children as they raced out the door. She sighed, and found herself wishing she, too, could run away to join the peasants' revels. 


	3. This 'they' of whom you speak so highly

**SCENE**: Still in the further flashback, still Marian's POV. The edge of Sherwood. A peasant's bonfire less than a mile from Knighton Hall. Plain folks dance and drink and spin stories and music into the night. If anyone there recognizes Robin and Marian for the nobles they are, no one says a word. They are somewhat off in their own world, anyway.

Marian is wearing a pair of Jeremy the groom's breeches and what is left of the bodice of her ornate and striking gown, the ragged edge of the frayed skirt torn mostly away by her hands (and, okay, also Robin's). If it were not night, her attire would surely be raising more than a few eyebrows.

Though she has agreed to this change of costume, and though she is having a far better time than she ever would have had at the Knighton Hall feast, Marian is trying very hard by turns to be grown-up and embody her perception of "ladylike", and generally failing because Robin continues to tweak her into losing her composure, whether on purpose, or just by being himself.

They are sitting close, but they each look off into the night, or at the celebrating peasants as they talk, not making much eye contact.

"They say you have run wild since your mother's death, you know," Marian said, meaning to sound conversational.

"Is that what they say?"

She could not tell if he sounded concerned.

"They say you would rather be a King's forester in Sherwood than the proper son of an Earl." She was trying to talk like an adult. Like someone attempting to counsel him on his actions. The way to which she was often spoken. "They say you disappear without so much as a by-your-leave for whole days--a week--at a time." (In fact, she had been quite jealous when she had heard this.)

"I begin to think this is a particular friend of yours, this 'they' of whom you speak so highly."

This is not how she wanted to be: prim, insufferable, at odds with her own self, and with him. So much for her recent (and expensive, her father had said) instruction in being more ladylike. She turned to him, saying nothing else, but putting the full power of her gaze on Robin.

Examining him, she thought him slight, at times gawky, but less so out here, in the open, away from his Earl father and the nobility and the requirements it made of one.

She wondered if she thought him handsome. She could not decide. It was dark. He was, she settled on, as always, interesting.

"I understand your short temper with me," he offered, as if to make peace. "After all, I took you away from your own party--though I hadn't set out to."

"_My_ party? What do you mean?"

"Tonight. In the Hall. Our fathers will announce our betrothal." Now it was his turn to look at her and try to gauge her response. 


	4. You will change, Robin

Her mind spun as though she had been struck. She attempted to put on a believable attitude of casual indifference. Robin certainly seemed to be wearing one. _The dress,_ she thought. _The expensive dress. It all makes sense._ "My father," she confessed, "does not much find time to talk to me of late." Then quickly she followed up with a question, her mind as usual leaping to suspicion. "Is that why you brought me here, along with you? To ask..." It was a laugh, really, the idea of gaining her permission. Her father had not even told her of this deal brokered on her future. It was abundantly obvious her feelings mattered not at all.

"No," said Robin, fully sincere, turning on his elbow from where he was propped on the ground. "Sir Edward, my lord high sheriff, and my Earl father have not thought to ask my opinion of their match. Only, and I didn't know I'd have the chance to do so tonight," he began to hold her gaze in a very decided stare. "I wished to say to you that _**I**_ would not make you do something that you would not wish to do." The stare ended, and he looked away again, out into the night. "Anyway, you would not see me very much, I'm sure," he said, playfully teasing, "I do not doubt I will continue as 'they' say, disappearing for days at a time without taking the proper leave of people." Humor played about the corners of his mouth and eyes. "I see no reason why betrothal or eventual marriage should alter that."

Conversation lulled as Marian watched a couple in the shadows whose dance had turned into something more. Something for closed doors and soft tones. So, was this the boy, then, the someday man she must hang her future on? Robin of Locksley? Next Earl of Huntingdon? Oh, yes, of course her father would like that title. And the current Earl would no doubt like the proximity to her father the Sheriff. But to not even tell her? She sighed.

"No," she disagreed with the lighthearted turn Robin's speech had taken. "You will change, Robin. People always do. People grow up. And when they do, they never keep their promises."

He sat up to his knees; she had his full attention now. "Like Clem, your brother, you mean?" he asked, ever too perceptive for her liking. "What did he promise you before he went to join the Lionheart?"

"That is not important." Of course it had been important, she contradicted herself internally. "Only, you will change, Robin. Soon you will learn firsthand about politics, and power, and the wide world will call to you, and you will go to see it, or stay and grow sour at the loss of it."

A moment passed with him trying to let the spark in her words die before it reached the tinder box, and he said, "I do not think you know me as well as you might," though it was not a denial. "I do not like promises," he said, as if to excuse Clem whatever his transgression. "To keep one is often complicated."

"Ah, so you let your Earl-father make them for you, then? I see the wide world has come over you faster than I had expected." She got up on her own knees, and they were facing one another, kneeling. They seemed set to potentially bait one another all night, but in one moment, Robin turned the tide.

"How can I stop what he does? How am I to put an end to his plotting and planning? He believes he builds the foundation of a bright future for us. And certainly," this was not apologetic now, "I would not mind a betrothal to you, Marian, if you would not mind one to me. Have we not been friends ever? Were you not there when I strung my first bow? When I nocked my first arrow?"

She agreed he spoke the truth. But this news was fresh to her, she needed to think, to somehow temper it with the feeling of free will (however false). "And as our fathers grow ever-older, should the day come when this betrothal sits ill with either one of us, for whatever reason--?"

He finished her thought, "we release the other from it. We find our own bright future, as it finds us."

"Yes," she said, feeling almost giddy with power, with a connection to another human being who seemed to understand the bleakness of life as a pawn in parental schemes, and she reached for his hand, which he took, though not in a handshake as was offered. "I accept."

He held her offered hand in both of his. "Let us kiss, then, fairest Marian of Knighton," he let himself spiral into grandiose speech, "one-day Lady Huntingdon, Mistress of Locksley village and its manor. Let us kiss to seal nothing. Let us kiss because it is today, and you are here and I am here and that peasant over there is far in his cups, and that one there long asleep, and let us kiss because your Lord father and mine would not like it, and because if it is nice, any time we see a bonfire we might think of it again, and someday perhaps we shall kiss again for no reason at all, other than this: we need no one's by-your-leave."

And so they do. It is a bit fumbling at its start, perhaps. Marian certainly has had no experience with such a thing, but it is clumsy in an endearing way, and by the time the kiss ends, they have assuredly gotten the hang of it. 


	5. Marian, why are you not here?

**SCENE:** Return to Robin and the present-day fires of Sherwood burning at Knighton Hall.

The memory left a sweet taste in his mouth that he could not, or rather _would not_ let turn bitter. His mind had replayed that night a thousand and one times while on Crusade. He had not known the half of Marian then, that night now long ago. Had not known the woman she would become, the fire that would burn in her belly, often squelched to smouldering by the life assigned to her. The fire that burned in his own belly for right, for loyalty, for service to those who depended on them. And that night long ago, surely, it would never have occurred to him that such a fire, such a passion for actively changing the world could exist in the body of a girl. (Though even at that time he had known himself quite an array of girls.)

Marian was hardly the first girl he had kissed, but he had to admit he had no idea how he had enticed any of them at that age. His memory of himself was one of nervous energy, his teenage years feeling like a bow strung over-tightly and waiting to snap, grasping at anything and hoping desperately to find the thing that _fit_. The thing that was meant for him. To do. To be. To love. _Had he been sure that night that it was Marian?_ He thought for a moment. _No. He had not._ He had only been sure he had to get out of Knighton Hall, away from the cursed dancing highborn folk seemed to enjoy, the conversations never-ending of politics and scheming, gossip and posturing. That part of his life had seemed unreal to him at the time.

Perhaps he had understood the world less then. Perhaps, as Marian had predicted, he _had_ changed. What was his life now, though he carried it off in breeches and greensward-wear, but politics and scheming, staying alive by gossip and posturing?

He bit his lip. He felt dangerously as though he would hurl bow and wooden tag into Gisborne's fires tonight just to be able to speak to her, to Marian, for a moment to ask: the passion, did it still burn? The stubborn will to fight for right, to protect the weak, was it still there? The inequitable fires of Knighton, consuming the greed of their masters, did their heat yet touch her cheek? Their ash cause her eye to tear?

Robin looked up, as though about to utter a prayer. _Marian_, he voiced under his breath, _why are you not here?_ The reverie ended, and he turned silently back into the forest, heading home to camp. 


	6. Having the look of Nottingham's dungeon

Immediately following Robins melting back into the forest underbrush, the arrow SFX and lettering across the bottom of the screen tells us we are somewhere in southern France. The exterior establishing shot is ambiguous, but close attention may reveal the place to be a small, but well fortified abbey.

**SCENE:** [The trick here is to deliberately shoot this scene so that it has much in common with the look of Nottinghams dungeon, to further disorient the viewer.] Interior of a small cell (as they call the rooms there), sparsely outfitted. It is not well-lit, as it is night, and we are unsure as viewers if this is a room where nice things take place, or rather the opposite. We are shown a beautiful woman, sitting in a chair against the wall, quite alert. Her ancestry appears to be Saracen, which further increases our dread, although her attire is solidly European. Her face and expression lack enough emotion to put us at ease in our environment. As the camera pulls back from her, Marian is revealed on a cot bed in the foreground.

We hear, as though he is in the room, Robins call from the prior scene, [_Marian, why are you not here?_] At this, Marians eyes open, and she looks confusedly at her surroundings with a certain amount of distress, and even fear. When they settle on the Saracen woman, she asks, drowsily, "where have I been?"

"Let us say," says the woman, still unreadable, "you have fallen asleep."

And thus it is revealed with a tart shock to the audience that Marian lives: cliffhanger, end episode 3.

The scene is played in such a way as to keep from the audience whether Marian is in a good circumstance or a bad one (until next week), all that is known is that beyond a shadow of a doubt, she lives.

_...to be continued..._


	7. Explaining the revised S2 finale

**Episode 4:** Begin with a complicated-to-write-out, but easily seen dream/memory sequence of the Season Two finale, as follows; a walk-through the dreams/nightmares of Alan-a-Dale, Little John, and Much, each recalling different parts of the Holy Land story (but sequentially) as they sleep. We know who is dreaming each part, but each dream (intercut with the faces of the one dreaming it) progresses us further through the timeline. Perhaps we even see the dream nightmares of Guy and the Sheriff along the way. Cut to Robins more disturbed sleep where we see the newly 'revised' finale, which the audience will come to know ultimately as the truth. [Until this point, although we see certain actions from new POVs/twists per the particular dreamer guiding us, the story is as we saw in the Season ender.]

'Revised' Season Two finale, as Robin knows it: In the Season Two finale, Marian is injured, beyond badly, nigh unto death. After her injury, which will take months, if not years, from which to recover, King Richard, having just presided over her "death scene" wedding to Robin, quickly and secretly convinces Robin to have her taken, under his Guard's special protection, to a nunnery in South Western France, a particular stronghold of his near Aquitaine.

Here she will recover in complete anonymity and secrecy. Robin and Richard, without telling the others, proceed as though to bury Marian. (Hence the rest of the gang being already at Bassam's house when Robin finally arrives alone.) Utter secrecy is needed to conceal her from the Sheriff and Gisborne at all costs, as well as from others who would wish to injure the now-wife of the outlaw Robin Hood, a list of individuals who likely extend all the way to the King's brother, Prince John. Marian must be dead to everyone, even Robin.

It is not hard for him to feign grief; they have had ever-so-little time together, his five years on Crusade, stolen moments under the Sheriff's nose, and now this. He fears for her survival, and though she's under the King's best protection, Robin cannot quite reconcile handing over what he sees as his duty to another--even his King. Yet, he is of necessity (Gisborne has, after all, managed to "kill" her twice) persuaded.

The faux burial is simple to arrange, Robin is easily left to the final burial task alone--at his request. The Guard appointed to the task of Marian's transport, along with a half-English, half-Saracen nurse, Salima, arrives and takes her into their protection for her coming journey. 


	8. A hasty fare thee well

**SCENE:** A hasty fare thee well. Robin's point of view.  
The King was gone. Two men of the King's own Guard arrived, dressed as un-noteworthy pilgrims. He did not know them. A woman was with them also. She dismounted her horse and moved quietly to Carter's grave, topped by his shield. She was covered from head to toe, and veiled as well, whether from fear of the sun or an attempt at concealing herself, he did not know.

He felt a desperate, almost hysterical need to explain his agreement to this plan to Marian. The guard of two stood a ways off, waiting with the conveyance they would use to part him from Marian, again.

"Once again, going in different directions, my lady-wife," he said, to her pale, death-pale face. He signaled to the guards that they must come now. "I wish--" he began, "I have no, no way to tell you, to know--"

"If," came a decisive sound from the woman at Carter's grave, who had turned and was coming toward him, "you do love her more than yourself, you have no choice, my lord, we must go now. There is no time for further prevarication. If you love yourself and your own needs more than hers, then we will delay. Perhaps she may wake again before she dies surely and finally. But, you may be together. The choice is yours."

"She--" he stammered to the stranger, "she must go, I know that. I believe that," he stressed. "Only, you do not know her. If she wakes," he corrected himself, "_when_," his voice broke with the emphasis," she wakes, she may not agree with my decision. She may choose," he gulped, "to hate me." The guards and he now had Marian stowed safely on the conveyance, ready to depart.

Robins very demeanor, his eyes shadowed by the idea of abandonment, called out for comfort and reassurance, as would that of a child, but this harsh unknown woman could not see it--or had none to offer. She mounted her horse, turning her eyes (the only part of her not cloaked) to him. "Then she will hate you," she announced, "but she will live to do it."

"You are--" he began, meaning to say 'harsh', yet was still unable to finish a sentence, much less a thought.

"If I am, it is that life has made me so."

"She," Robin gestured to Marian, "would say that everything in life is a choice."

"Then perhaps the life of your English nobility endows one with such free-will, or perhaps," she continued, slyly, "only the notion of such. I do not know. Free-will is certainly not a concept I have much encountered, nor been gifted with by the 'noble' English who've crossed my path."


	9. Fate or FreeWill?

"Where will you go now?" she asked.

"I will do as my King bids me."

"Yet you would rather _choose_ to follow your lady?"

Robin grimly took her point. "_Touche'_. And so what is keeping me from exercising my free-will?"

Unlike Marian would have, she attempted to give him neither answer, nor initiate further conflict on the point. "I do not think you wished to return to this country."

"Yet I made the choice to do so."

"Or, rather, found you had no other choice? Not so unlike when you first left here."

A fuzzy haze of recognition began to dawn on him. "You? Convinced Richard? I do not..." He had never paid much attention to women in camp.

Again, she finished for him, "--Know me? Your wound," she gestured toward his ribcage, where he still wore a considerable scar, "though you had then carried it for some time, festered, milord. You were not sensible for several days. I would expect you to remember little until you were well on your journey home. The King," she refrained, as always, from using his Christian name, "had several of his Own Guard, and your man, escort you to port. At which point it was said you protested most valiantly. After such a show of bravery, it was no easy matter to dissuade the King from allowing your return to his side straightaway." Her eyebrows raised in what might have been a small smile, or a mild 'thanks-for-that' expression. After all, influencing a king like Richard, who so well knew his own mind at all times, was no easy task. Nor a safe one, as more than one knight and councilor could attest--had they still breath in their bodies.

The woman, still nameless to him, turned her mount and bid him no goodbye as she rode hard to join the guard, and the conveyance that held Marian, _his_ Marian so far distant now as to be barely visible as they traveled toward the horizon.

"Farewell, Lady Fate," he named his lady-wife's new nurse and traveling companion, a woman who had saved _his_ life, no doubt--who had changed his course, and certainly who had had no small part in the making of Robin Hood.

Surely she had continued to debate free-will with him only to distract him from Marian's departure. It was a kindness, or, perhaps, to her an expediency, but he found he could not thank her for it. No more than he could thank her for dismissing him from Crusade, as his homecoming had brought him to where he was now. Had brought him and those he cared for so near to disaster. And some (he thought of Carter so recently) to death. Could this woman understand that kind of loss? The feeling of responsibility for it?

He set his feet toward the city and the house of Bassam (that held at least one happy couple who very much would disagree with his current black thoughts on his initial homecoming, had they known them).

To the city and Bassam's. To port, and home to England. Rarely had his steps come so slowly. 


	10. The Tale of Salima

**The Tale of Salima**  
Salima is a Padma Lakshmi-type beauty, having come somehow from the wartime Holy Land Court/cadre of King Richard. She is more than proficient at palace intrigues and also a skilled nurse. She is conflicted about her mixed ethnicity: the two inside her do not "lay together well". She is believed (though it is seen as of no consequence by the English who know) to be the child of a certain Templar, now dead.

"I am twice noble," she shares with Marian, "for my mother was a princess among her people, and my father a lord, yet I am anathema to both nations. It is only my skill as a healer, and my other 'gifts' that keep me not only a member of the King's court, but also alive."

Mistreated in nearly every way possible in the past (though her face shows little indication of her other scars), a fortuitous assistance to an ailing Richard gained his favor--but not entirely his protection from English knights.

It is not until the arrival of Carter (post-Get Carter!) that she came to know compassion, and under his 'protection', security for a time.

Her feelings for Carter were not quite love, but conflicted, as they were born of the gratefulness of necessity, and an unshakeable indebtedness for his defense of her. His feelings for her, however, most definitely were true. 


	11. In the camp of the King

**The Further Tale of Salima**  
Salima's life has been one of hard realities, abuse, and constant compromise in trying to make a way for herself in a world where she is wanted by neither the Saracen nor the English. She straddles both worlds uneasily, finding the physical beauty her mother left her with nothing more than a heavy curse, due to the unwanted attentions it garners her.

Attentions she is unable to ignore, much less rebuff in the society of Crusade, a single woman with no family that will claim her and no guardian that has seen her as anything more than a carnal object to secure, only insofar as such a 'guardian' may keep her to himself, and for his own ends.

As she tells Robin before departing with Marian, the concept of free-will, of free personal choice has proven nothing but an illusion to her. _Qismah_, the oft-bleak fate of Kismet always wins.

**SCENE:**  
The wartime traveling court of King Richard, located at various times in various locales of the Holy Land. Long enough after the end of Get Carter! for Carter to do as he said he would: find and join Richard's Private (also known as The King's Own) Guard.

Richard's court is both ascetic and hedonistic by turns (depending heavily on what one might be looking for at any given time). It is run efficiently and regimentally. After all, it seems Richard has either been at war, going to war, or preparing for war since he fought his way out of Queen Eleanor's womb. The King lives for conflict, and opportunities to showcase valor, and has elevated the concept of heroism to near cult status. Even his enemies esteem his prowess.

Richard's court reflects these values, as well as a certain utilitarianism in his presence. He lives like a soldier, with a soldier's things and little more. But neither does he begrudge his knights certain noble comforts, should they require them: a soft silk pillow, expensive drink and foods, exotic local skin to warm a bed.

It is as if things not directly related to his near-Viking-like love (and pursuit) of battle and the glory of victory go unnoticed by him. Even so, it is rare that one of the soft-living, debauched-by-native-plunder knights is admitted into the King's inner circle. Honor, nobility of character, and fiercely tenacious loyalty are things he prizes. For that he seems almost universally revered, and the small sect who do not reverence him often disparage him for these self same values.

This is a man who would no more interrupt a cockfight than he would two of his own knights viciously squaring off over the perceived ownership of a half-caste courtesan.

And so he did not.

It was good sport that day just outside of the King's tent when Sir Xavier (a wife and seven children, a fourth son only just born that month, at home in France) and Sir Florrick of Gheins (an eager, stout baron's daughter to whom he was promised living in anticipation of his return back at his father's duchy) set steel against steel over the woman Salima. It hardly seemed sensible that two men who spent time fighting actual battles should choose--salivate even--for a duel such as this, deadly as it might prove, over a woman whom they might possess through force and dominance, but whose affection, even whose tolerance, they would never know.

She stood watching, close to the battle that had erupted, opposite the King's tent, out of which Richard had come to witness the scuffle--possibly but unlikely to interfere should the clash come to a deathblow. (He did not, after all, care a great deal for either man, and perhaps the death of one at the hand of the other over such a trivial matter might produce in the victor a reversal, a new-earned zeal for both his Liege and what Crusade [in Richard's mind, at least] was truly about).

Salima could do little but watch. It was not the first time she had been an unwilling participant in such arguments of violence. Although Sir Xavier had not killed the last man to force her into his tent and bed, he had, in a similar instance, whipped him within in an inch of his senses, making it impossible for Sir Lauric to force her to do anything for him ever again. And yet Xavier had been no better to her than any of the others. As little as she wished Florrick to win the bout, she wished Xavier to lose it equally, so that she could only be left alone from such interests.

But she knew, even as she had known since coming to his camp, the King was nowhere to look for aid in such matters. Despite the fact she had his respect, his deference even (he alone addressed her correctly as 'Sultana', or sometimes the English 'Princess'), he would not interrupt two dogs fighting over a bitch until the winner showed himself. And he would not interfere here. 


	12. The Further Tale of Salima

In the hot sun of that windless day, when sand seemed to weigh more than usual, and thus refused to fly up from the desert floor, it seemed to take mere moments for a new addition to the Guard (a man named Carter, she was later told) to step between the combatants and unleash two scorchingly brilliant-in-the-sun blades into the fray. It took less than a moment for it to become obvious he was not there to tear them apart from each other, but rather to tear them apart individually. Before anyone (except perhaps the King, who was used to the extraordinary) could take a second breath, both Xavier and Florrick lay immobile, facedown in the heavy sand. Immobile, but not dead, she did note, with some inner disappointment at the lack of finality.

"I swear, Carter," said the King brightly, chuffed over the impromptu competition, "on Old Henry's very bones, I swear, well done!"

Salima's eyes looked on, to a bystander, oddly impassive at the conclusion of a matter that was of utmost importance to her future, though they would have been emotive, gentle, and easily readable in a person less wearied by their own path in life.

Carter did not fully approach her, but dropped to one knee, one sword thrust into the sand, throwing the shadow of a cross to his right. The small crowd of other knights, emissaries, and the King's wartime staff that had gathered looked on.

Carter's head bowed, his eyes cast downward as though in contrition. "_As salaam alaikum_," he offered to her.

Across the five-foot or so distance, Salima examined the visible crown of Carter's blonde head, all that she could see of him. They had never been introduced. She would have wondered what prompted him to take such a dangerous gamble in entering a fight that seemed primed for a death blow had she not seen how he fought: effortlessly and with consummate skill. For a man such as this, this fight (though between two somewhat skilled knights) was no risk to him at all. No more than two young boys caught up in a tussle over stolen fruit.

_What sort of a man was this Carter?_ she wondered. Certainly, after what she had seen she knew better than to think she could resist the advances (likely to be violent) of such a man. If she wished to both keep her place, and stay alive, she must yield to him when and where he wished it. Oddly, as he made no further movement toward her, he did not seem to wish it now. (Though she had known many men who wished carnal release following combat.)

His head still lowered waiting? resting? examining the sand? she tested him, turning away, to depart the area.

Surprisingly, it was Richard, not this Carter, that stopped her. "Sultana," he asked, his manner as always courtly and gracious when he wished it to be. "Will you give him no _'wa-alaikum-salaam'_ in return? This fine warrior who has ransomed you from these two others? Who does honor to himself this day?"

"I have no peace to offer any man, Sire," she explained, then inclined her head, offering a flattery, "Save you. _As salaam alaikum_."

The King knew enough of Salima's related history to be aware of the risk and unpleasantness life offered her. _The Queen's Teeth_, thought Richard, as he had more than once since meeting her: _there's courage for you. There's guts._

In that moment he would have commissioned an army of a thousand Salimas. Any city he wanted would be his. He wondered at her in some of the way he wondered at his own mother, their paths so brutal at times (his mother jailed by her own husband, her own son), their lives not much their own to order, dependent on the men who took them to their beds. The things they had to endure.

Richard thought about Salima's lot in life, her Kismet, perhaps not so like his mother's. For she had no Lionhearted son to stand for her, no one to come to her defense. _Well, let Carter be that to her, then, should he wish_. Another time, another life away from these sands and perhaps he, Richard, might have taken her even to his bed, raised up bastard sons uncowed by their Fate, showing their mother's--their English Templar grandfather's--boldness and resolve on the field of battle, fighting for their Father-King.

The Lionheart mused on this a space, after she had gone. And then, as was his way, promptly forgot all about her. 


	13. Carter's Woman

Months have passed. In that time Carter never forced himself on Salima in any way, yet, she has found herself in his bed in a not altogether unwilling way. Which is new to her after a lifetime of exploitation and rape. Still, although she is not altogether unwilling, she is also not altogether willing.

In point of fact, Carter interposed himself into the Xavier/Florrick fight solely in an effort to free Salima from either of their grasps. He had noticed her around camp, the stoic resolve, the learned skill with which she worked in the oft-grisly surgeon's tent, and the dismissively abusive way Sir Xavier behaved toward her, often in public. The way in which the married knight chose to shame what was obviously a good woman, a superior human being. And one who appeared to have all the sadness of a disappointed Madonna.

It was certainly not Carter's intention to become yet another master for her to serve. But the politics of Crusade life in camp were yet new and unknown to him: a woman like Salima could not possibly exist in Richard's court--much less on her own in the world--without a protector (even if, to a man, every "protector" in the past had hurt her by his own hand as much as he may have 'protected' her from the hurt of others).

At first, when she appeared in his small tent, pitched so that one wall of it was actually the outer wall of the King's own private tent (Carter has become inner-inner circle), Carter was conflicted about accepting the advances (such as they were) of a woman seemingly impassive, who so clearly cared little or nothing for him. Yet after a battle, and a long ride some week and a half after his triumphant victory in the Xavier/Florrick fight, he returned to his tent to find her with water, towels and poultices for joints sore from riding, and for a head worn tired in the heat.

Not quite sure what he had walked in on, but much too exhausted to refuse comfort and gentle care in that moment, he let her tend to him as she wished. On that day, nothing more existed between them than bandages and possets, and her sleeping the night on the ground at the foot of his cot. The speech that had passed between them could not even be counted a conversation.

But she stayed at the foot of the cot the next night, and the next, and soon he noticed silken and embroidered pillows and soft coverings began to multiply at the foot of the cot, until the desert ground could hardly be seen anymore, and until the night came that he found, quite actually, that the desert ground at the foot of his cot had come to appear far more accommodating than the cot itself. And so he, too, spent the night there.

He found that everyone in the camp took it for granted she was now his property, to do with as he pleased. Just as quickly he found that letting everyone believe so, as 'Carter's woman', she walked about freely, unmolested and able to go about her life here at the traveling court without fear. As he did not wish to have that freedom taken from her, nor see her become 'protected' by any of the men he knew would like to have her in his tent, he did not repudiate the camp-wide belief, and he let 'Carter's woman' stay in his tent. And eventually, in his bed (or rather, at the foot of it).

**SCENE:** A fine early morning in the camp of King Richard, outside Acre, which has again fallen to the Turks. Carter moves about the tent to ready himself for the day. Salima, as is her custom, does not rise until he leaves--he has come to suspect it is because she does not wish him to see her naked in the daylight, large and small scars and weals of years, mistreatment visible on the usually covered parts of her dusky skin. So she remains awake, bare and twined among the cloths and pillows at the foot of the cot.

"You are to ride out again, as the King?" she asks.

"Yes, Princess, I shall again be 'king for a day'." Carter smiled. "Richard thinks it a great lark. Makes me introduce myself as him right and left, to peasants or whomever we come across. Two days ago we took tea with an entire camp of Bedouins, and I played Richard the entire time! What my mother would say if she only knew: she gave birth to pseudo-royalty." He was in fine spirits.

"It is dangerous. One day you will be taken for him for real, and the consequences may be hard to bear." her tone was not disapproving, only matter-of-fact.

"They may, it is true. But I do what I must for my King. For England."

He was almost finished dressing. One of the King's squires would assist him with the armor for the day, a benefit of being in Richard's good graces and having one's tent pitched so close to the King's Quarters.

She said nothing in response. What could she say? Certainly she had no right to tell him what to do, what risks to take or not to take. She had no power over him, nor should she.

Yet, she did have quite a power over Carter. Especially so at present.

He crossed the space between them and sat down on the heavy carpet now spread at the foot of the cot, pretending to struggle with an errant boot. "Do you like Richard for a name, for a boy, I mean--a child?"

"What?"

"Or perhaps you father's name? No? Grandfather's?" He saw that she was not understanding. "Your courses, Salima. They have not been with you these past two months that we have camped at this spot. Surely you've noticed. You are with child."

She looked at him, trying to study him. He did not say it unhappily.

"There will be no babies, milord," she called him that though he had repeatedly asked her not to. "No bastards. You need have no fear." Again, her tone was conversationally, matter-of-fact. She thought she had understood his state of mind.

"No bastards. No, I should think not." He shook his head from side to side and kissed her. She let him. "I was hoping if you, and/or your family could see their way clear to it, there might be a wedding."

"I...cannot marry you. Your family--" Her eyes looked aghast, like someone about to expect an eruption of violence, like someone about to flee from it.

"Well, yes, I mean, _we're_ not up to snuff, naturally."

She thought he was teasing her.

He was not. He explained. "No. No! Your father was one of the greatest knights England has ever known--and of a family extending through both England and France. And I have heard stories of your mother's noble people. Surely I have no right to ask for your hand other than that...I love you."

"Stop this!" She nearly shouted, but choked on the end.

He had never heard her shout.

She sat upright in their impromptu bed, too outraged by his conversation to recall the light of morning and the scars and her own state of undress. "There will be no bastards because there will be no babies. I cannot have children anymore."

"Anymore?" he asked, hurt coming in to the corners of his tone. "What have you done?" he asked with an utter tenderness she had never before heard from a man.

"I have not been to see the wise woman, if that's what you mean, to take a potion to prevent conception, nor have I asked the wise woman to disappear any babies yet coming."

His shoulders registered relief. But he did not know what else he was about to hear.

"I have born three children," she began, proceeding with many pauses, her tone again as always, even, controlled, nearly rehearsed, although seeming unlikely to remain so. "The first at thirteen came too soon. It was the child of my uncle, a Templar like his brother, my father. When it came my mother's brother, who could not stop my Templar-uncle from raping me thought to stop the resulting child from what its existence might do to me. He took it from the room and killed it. I do not know how. I believe she would have died anyway. Perhaps he did a kindness. I do not know. Shortly after, he was killed, and I was turned away from my mother's family." Her eyes were on Carter's face, but strangely unfocused, as though his understanding, his reaction to what she was saying was unimportant.

Carter wanted to touch her, to reach out and offer some sort of comfort, but he knew physical contact would be no anodyne for this moment, this sorrow she bore, the product of twisted human want. So, in anticipation of what might come next, he held his ground and suffered this small imposition to his desire; not touching her, on her behalf.

"Since then there have been two others. Neither lived to draw breath, and after the second I bled intermittently for four months. I have not bled since, nor do I have any reason to expect to ever again."

She continued, unused to anyone listening to her, or caring what she had to say or what she thought. "I do not see how anything could ever grow in a place so many men have spilled so much hate. And in a place that I wish I had never been born with. I hate it as much as men love it. More, because it gives me pain beyond any bliss it might afford them."

It was an epically long speech for her.

"I do not believe I have ever said that aloud." She felt cold, stiff. As though she had tried to exercise a long-dormant muscle, now withered with lack of use. She focused somewhere over his right shoulder.

"Salima," said Carter, not ignoring what she had shared, but choosing to acknowledge it in a different way: to let it lay between them, in the open, no longer locked inside her. He had heard the truth which she had offered. Her frankness honored him. There was no shame in her tale that he could see--not for her. But neither was it the time to push further on the topic. Instead, he returned to the immediate matter at hand, hoping to show her he could accept her history, even if she could not. One day, perhaps, he would find her willing to listen to his, and, he hoped, accept it: rage and revenge and regret and all.

For now, he saw her focus return to him, to the tent and the space at the foot of the cot they occupied. "I wish to marry. I wish you to be my wife. Bastards or legitimate, bairns or barren, it matters not to the question you must answer."

Her mind reengaged in the present. "Why do you ask this? You have won me, those months ago. I am yours until you choose to send me away, or another takes me by force."

"No," he said, a slight smile curving one corner of his mouth. "I have not won all of you. I may have this and this and this, and you may agree to that, or this. You may even give me permission to share your bed and the place you curse even now between your legs. But I have not won you. You will not let me. Perhaps, because you do not yet know the value of yourself. But I _will_ know you. I will persevere. And I will win you."

She was not failing to connect her gaze with his eyes now, though she registered bewilderment.

"And I will love you until then," he promised. "And I will love you ever after." He took out a dagger he was fond of from his right boot-top. It was a cabochon ruby-inlaid handled one tossed his way from a chest of such things by Much (of all people--in memory of Thomas, he had said) just before he left Sherwood to search for the King. An outlaw's weapon, stolen booty that had cheered him on many a dark hour of Crusade for its memory of friends waiting at home, friends fighting in their own way.

"And I say this, he continued, taking her hand in his, "because I think you must needs hear it, even if you will not believe it. I make this my vow to you: I will never," he etched the line of one of her palm scars with a roughly calloused finger, "_never_ hurt you in body as long as I live." He took the dagger and carved a mirror of her scar into his own right palm, blood let flow to mark the making of the vow. "Nor let another do so, as long as I live. And I will never, ever, come to you at night unless you come to me first. Unless it is your choice."

She found she did not wish to be cold any longer. It was her choice to comfort him, to cradle his bleeding hand. And in doing so, in that moment, to comfort herself.

Carter let her embrace his cut palm, his primary sword hand. With his left he stroked and caressed her dark fall of hair, bringing her head to his chest. Enough for her today, perhaps. Surely enough work for a morning. Enough for the two of them to think about for a year. He kissed her hair and smiled to himself. He did not plan to let the question of marriage go unanswered quite that long.

While in the embrace, Salima's keen medical eye could not yet properly evaluate his palm, but he felt what she had not yet seen. _Good_, Carter thought somewhere in the back of his mind. _We are not in battle today_. For in his zeal to prove his sincerity to her he had used more pressure than necessary to draw the blood, and sliced deeper than he had intended.

He would not hold a sword as efficiently as he would like (or as his enemies would dread) for several days, if not a week. But it would be a small price to pay, really, if 'Carter's woman', would only let him show her safety, teach her softness, and give her adoration.

He could not have known these things his own Kismet would deny him, nor that he would that very day see the friends of whom his dagger reminded him so fondly, nor could he know that had he should not have chosen the vow-or should have vowed less forcefully in drawing the blood to seal it-and instead chosen in favor of a strong sword hand...for his King would be in need of it. His Sherwood friends would be in need of it. And in the end, he himself would be desperately, finally and tantamountly in need of it.

Then again, perhaps it was the dark Kismet of Salima that was guiding his path now. And it was his vow to her, his very love of her that hurried his doom.

Certainly the Sultana, the woman he longed to marry--despite their pasts, _because_ of their pasts--the woman even now asking for and accepting his embrace, would come to see it in that light. 


	14. Simpler to Deal With

Marian does not regain consciousness at the handover to the King's Guard, and there is no time for Robin to write a letter and explain his reasoning for the unilateral decision to send her to safety in France.

He feels, scarily, as though her death would be simpler to deal with. He returns, under his King's orders (as we saw), to Sherwood.

The big question of the season back in Nottinghamshire becomes: _what is Robin hiding? Can he be fully trusted? Will he be able to go on without Marian? Is he losing it?_

The season in Sherwood goes on around the Marian plotline, which takes up time only here and there in most episodes as a sub or sub-sub plot, always occurring in the background of that week's main action. (The main action of Sherwood, which I will not endeavor to outline here) Until, toward season's end it shares equal time with the main "A" plots, as both storylines come together.

Throughout the season often Robin "sees" Marian, and they engage in animated, often loud discussions the others in the gang sometimes overhear. Much believes, and attempts to convince the others that Robin's behavior has become erratic and unusually secretive because he is being haunted by Marian's ghost.

**SCENE:** Much's POV, Sherwood in the Spring. The tender young leaves seem to vibrate in expectation of the season to come. It is breezy and beautifully in bloom if you have time to notice (which outlaws typically do not).

A little bit of firewood, a touch of dry kindling, really, was all he needed. Maybe a bit of aromatic wood to temper the meat just so.

Much rooted around in the underbrush here and there, not too awfully distant from camp, where some donated (rather, stolen) carrots and potatoes were on the boil. No help going too far off and risking mush--or so much boil-over as to leave them cooking (rather, burning) near-dry in the pot.

The others were to be about their business, such as it was. He snickered to himself that he need not fear John and Allan taking themselves off to 'look for honey' as Will and D'Jaq had done. Of course, at least not with each other. The thought of Will and D'Jaq killed the snicker, though. In them he'd lost two of the gang who actually had taken him full-seriously at times. And in D'Jaq he'd lost something of a confidant, to his mind, though even he had to admit he'd confide in nearly anyone if the mood struck him, except perhaps Alan.

His foot catching on roots, he leaned over to extract his boot, only to crouch lower for cover when he heard a voice raised in conversation.

He scanned the nearby clearing furtively; oh, wait, no worries. It was only Robin. But Robin was not quite himself these days, or rather, right now shouting in the forest, about to display a fit of pique, he was very _much_ himself, except that he was talking to no one.

Given to a twelve-year-old Robin in service when he was but nine, Much knew his former Master's ways quite intimately, and he knew Robin was not one, never had yet been one, to carry on a conversation with himself.

Much huddled where he stood, and watched.

The camera flirts here with viewers, showing us moments with Robin and Marian arguing in the forest, and then clearly showing us what Much sees: no Marian, only Robin at times gesturing wildly and arguing one-sidedly with empty air.

The horror, the fear of mental instability overcoming Robin is clearly shown in Much's gob-smacked, infinitely saddened face.

The argument is already quite heated and we join it mid-fight, not knowing what sparked it. (Of course Much only hears Robin speaking.)

Marian scans the open area around them. "You must be more careful," she counsels Robin.

"And why is that, Madam Strategist?" He is in no mood to hear advice.

"Because you are losing their trust! I see it. You cannot afford even the ghost of erratic behavior, Robin. You need their help--as they need you. Do not drive them away!"

He responds, exasperated, "The ghost--" he repeats, "losing their trust? Bollocks and nonsense! I'll hear no more of it." Grand and lordly tones came out toward the end of his speech of dismissal. The tone of a man used to--born to--being both in charge and obeyed.

It is a tone Marian had heard in her life once too often. She turns and leaves the clearing, walking out of sight--she won't be spoken to this way.

"Maria_nnnn_," his voice hits hard on the 'n'.

Much recognized some of the late Earl, Robin's father, in his master's tone.

[The audience sees Vision Marian doesn't return.]

Robin strode purposefully out of the clearing. Or perhaps stalked. Much could not decide.

Much slumped back into the undergrowth, no further need of watching anything. He needed to think: what had he witnessed here? An over-taxed brain? An over-saddened soul pushed toward lunacy? Or, as he had seen at the campfire night after night after night after night, a man chased, haunted in his eyes, carrying the weight of a past now too heavy to swallow down as he had done (so he said) with Crusade?

_Haunted_. That was it. Much embraced the only explanation that assured his beloved Master's wit was in tact.

He could not have lost his mind, could not be wandering in Sherwood arguing with naught but air. Ergo, therefore, hence and so forth, he must be what his eyes showed Much: Haunted by Marian. By her ghost, the spectre of her soul, refusing to rest peacefully in the Holy Land. In the infidel sands of Acre, now fallen to the Turks.

"Oh God," he thought, and it was, in fact a prayer. "She has not found her way to Heaven. She has become lost. And my lord Robin now with her!" And for that, unlike a now over-boiled mush of forgotten carrots and potatoes on the cookfire, Much knew not what to do. 


	15. Crusader's Memory

Since the audience finds out (knows) at some point around episode 3 or 4 that Marian lives, the visions are, of course, Robin's own view of Marian and his own psyche arguing against him/counseling him and guiding him. Marian becomes/is half of his life guide/conscience.

Perhaps something similar (though less often and less interactive) occurred during his time away on Crusade.

**SCENE:** Flashback, Robin on Crusade. A desert battlefield.  
He felt the hair on his head, slick and matted from nearly a half-day of hard-fought battle. They were to the close one-on-one now, swords flashing in the hot Palestine sun. _Like two suns, really,_ his mind told him. Utterly shadeless. And still he fought. _Lunge, parry, sidestep._ Always looking for the good ground in the ever-shifting dunes of sand. His mind had begun to wander from its own weariness, from the exhaustion of his physical self.

He battled this opponent, but he was beginning to lose the ability to be fully mentally present. _Dangerous stuff, Locksley,_ he heard himself say quietly aloud between grunts and roars and more ringing steel. He used that name when he talked to himself in his head, its hominess like a prayer, or a tonic to him. It was a meaningless place word (to most) which one would not tend to hear on Crusade. Meaningless to most. To him, all. He did not doubt his bones could feel, even over this distance, the very vibration of the thrice-daily rung chapel bell on Locksleys lake, the tremor it made on the waters a millisecond before the blessed sound came to your ear. _Locksley._ And he was to the deathblow, and this fellow before him dispatched. Finished.

Attuned again to the present moment, he did not even wipe the sweat from his eyes before looking up from the man's body. _The sun again. Ah! the sun._ It forgave nothing and no one. The fighting was dying down now. He cast his eyes about for his next skirmish, then, to the distance. He thought he saw palms, clumped as they would be about an oasis. Had that been there before? Or was it a mirage? Something on the wind turned him sunward, and he was met with a flash of brilliant jewel blue, a long scarf aloft, high overhead, attached to naught, impossibly here, flitting, flirting above the battlefield carnage. His neck spun him quickly in the opposite direction: where had it come from? And there, among the littered field walked, in a dress of equally brilliant blue, Marian, the Sheriff's black-haired daughter, her gait that of almost floating, scanning the ground with her eyes, and yet not seeming to behold what was before her. The sun's heat did not touch her, only its light brought further depth to her dark hair, intricately plaited down her back.

He beheld her wordlessly, his breath coming slowly and deeply as a thirsted man might drink a cask of water; in long, measured draughts. He did not wish to blink his eyes. He did not know how long the hallucination might last, and yet he thanked his overwrought mind for gifting it to him. "Robin, to me!" he heard Richard shout beside him, heard the clangor of the day return to his ears, and he turned as he must, _as he must_, sword to the King's ready, and she was gone. 


	16. Still crusading

Or

**SCENE:** Flashback, still crusading in the Holy Land. Early evening in the tent home and camp of a sheik on land captured and held by the Lionheart. A sheik (most-likely forced) to offer a version of "hospitality" to his conquerors; including making all women in his camp and under his protection available for the king's knights' pleasure. Still, for all the nasty truth behind the gesture, there is an air of near-gentility in the encounter, though it is, in essence, an enforced slave brothel. On this occasion it is possible some war machinations/planning/diplomacy will take place, as this sheik is connected to Saladin himself.

The flap of the tent door pulled back and Sir this and Sir that of the King's guard entered the large tent, its dome draped in intricate fabrics and luxurious carpets; its pillow-strewn floor peopled by the sheik's women. Mothers, sisters, wives, servant and free, and each one seeming more beautiful than the last, outfitted like queens, swathed in jewels and veils, looking more like expensive gifts for unwrapping than unwilling participants in this show of the sheik's submission to Richard, or _Malik-Ric_ as he was known here.

The King, as a rule, ignored the pleasures to be taken from native women, as he similarly ignored/overlooked the way in which his knight soldiers chose to treat the same women. Some few knights followed the King's example. Among these were Robin of Locksley and his attendant, Much, often choosing to stand guard for the King instead of joining the bacchanal.

This evening truly was a spectacular showing.

Few Saracen men could be found within the tent. Those who could be seen clustered together, approximating a social gathering, enjoying hookah pipes, the smoke and scent of which further perfumed the heavy air.

Much let the tent flap fall as he stepped inside, following Robin. His master's easy self-possession in any situation gave Much borrowed strength even here, in the midst of the enemy. They scanned the room ("Well, now, it wasn't quite a room, now, was it, being the inside of a tent and all," Much thought) in preparation of the arriving King, following close behind them.

Robin moved ahead into a point position, his line of sight for sweeping the area for threats constantly hampered by pillows and hookah cords, as well as the women everywhere and their billowing coverings pooling in puddles of silk around them on the floor. Any one could pose a risk for the King. Who could know what "threats", what weapons this native garb might conceal?

Still and all it was an important night, and one whose diplomatic potential even a cautious Robin was not prepared to imperil by over-zealously pressing security issues to the point of offense. He turned to Much, prepared to give the 'clear' sign and bring in Richard, and resolved to be all the more alert to make up for the messy security situation at hand.

Though Robin's eyes looked for threats to assess, in truth he found himself hard-pressed this night to ignore the show of beauty and the display of luxury the King's presence had brought about. Robin of Locksley (Sir Robin here, though he never required the use of that formal address) was not an earl's son for nothing, and though he could live as sparsely (and as happily) as a church mouse, he still knew an appreciation for fine things. And fine things were often a rarity in the desert for the devoted (and uncorrupted) Crusader; even among the King's Own guard.

Caught in a moment of pause before signaling to Much, something like a cool breeze blew past his right cheek, causing him to turn in response. _Something cool here? In this desert's tent packed with the breezeless haze of bodies and smoke? In two hours' time when the sun had fully set, perhaps, outside, but within? Not likely._

In an instant he felt as alive as an arrow sprung into flight, his back taut, his muscles primed yet limber. But what was to come?

Much was forgotten in the space of that eye's twinkling, the waiting King forgotten as well. Robin knew not where to look. It was happening. Something-something was happening. His eyes widened, he cast them everywhere, but they kept returning to the women, seated in a long line, as if they were queued among the stalls of Nottingham's market day, yet their only wares themselves. After several attempts to stop looking them over, sure he was fighting some base instinct and not his own intuition, he gave in, letting his eyes travel from woman to woman, attempting to discern as much as possible from the small amount of their faces they showed when in company.

Movement like a ripple in a pond came from further down the row. It was subtle, but one woman in almost-royal amethyst silks stirred from her place, and Robin's world-weary eyes came to rest on hers just as the cool breeze that could not in fact be a cool breeze again portentously found his cheek.

There could be no doubt, though her hair and lower face were veiled: the clear, quick eyes of Marian of Knighton looked into his, standing out as they always did, against her pale-to-perfection skin.

(Even in his daze he had to correct himself: Marian spent far too much time on a horse for the true-pale skin of ladies of the Court to ever take hold over her. Nonetheless, her skin's tone was startlingly different to that of the women surrounding him.)

They were quick eyes, as sharp in their movement as a hawk, but lacking in avian fierceness; never dewy or limpid as he had heard other ladies' described, but nimble as those of the hart, vacillating between parts feral and gentled.

_Oh, how he dreamed those eyes in his sleep some nights. How he had pored over their peculiar beauty on unending long marches! How even now his mind became ridiculously poetic at the sight of them._

There was no time to question her appearing to him here. Her eyes, widening upon drawing his gaze, showed him all he needed to know: here, in this sheik's tent, was something to be feared. He watched, the breeze-that-could-not-be still at his cheek. He looked to see her, see what he could of the vision of her like a monk studies his copy work; keenest of attention to the smallest of each fine, intricate detail. Slowly, nearly imperceptibly, her head moved from side to side, warning him away. Coins adorning the fringe of the headpiece she wore caught the light and twinkled, and if he were closer they would have jangled in his ear. He thought that he might gladly submit himself even to a Saracen lash if only she might stand close enough to him that he might hear the tinkling resonance of those coins in this impossible cool breeze.

He lifted his eyebrows in a silent request across the fifteen feet or so between them that he might delay their now-inevitable departure for only a moment to step closer to her.

Her eyes blazed in alarm.

He felt himself start to speak to her, brought his hand to his mouth to stop the words from coming, never taking his eyes off her, and instead spoke to Much, now remembered. The King, now remembered. Everything, now remembered. The girl, the Maid of Nottingham, never forgotten.

The King's entourage left the encampment forthwith, without question.

Robin could not recall when she vanished, could not recall turning his gaze away from her, for in truth, he never had.

He would never have admitted that evening reopened an ache within him, but he was so distracted by the evening's events, still half-slumbering in them, his mind so enchanted by the unexpected vision that on the return to the King's Camp, when another knight took a moment to renew teasing him about his believed impassiveness toward the native women, Robin (to Much's shock and dismay) admitted having, that night, encountered one he rather fancied quite a lot. A moment of speechlessness overtook their company, and then the guffaws and backslapping started: Huntingdon had made a fine joke!

It was early dawn of the next day when news reached them of the sheik's encampment. Following an attack, not a living thing was left, the camp plundered and razed to the ground. It was never known which side was responsible; neither claimed it for their own. And Robin of Locksley knew only this: his king was, for another day, safe. And the King, the Lionheart, knew only this: he had Sir Robin of Locksley to thank for it. 


	17. Truly alone

In the current visions Marian appears cherubic, her absolute personal best--save the bloody gash in her abdomen. She wears the season two finale "death" outfit, thereby looking just as she did when Robin saw her last. He always tries very hard to avoid the gash, and is often caught quickly shifting his eyes away from it. Or in some cases, his hands. Yes, the two may touch in the visions.

**SCENE:** Sherwood, Marian and Robin are alone (which is good, since to anyone else's eye, Robin is by himself). We see Marian lying in his lap lazily discussing the gang's business of the day. Both are quietly happy.

"I must go, they have started missing me by now, I am sure," Robin says, playing with her fingers, which are draped carelessly over his knee.

She pretends to pout. "Well, if you're going to leave all the time, I see I shall have to have something to keep me busy. How many do you suppose?"

"How many what?"

"Well, babies, of course, you foolish man. Isn't that what marital concupiscence is for?"

"Con-cu--_what_?"

She does not wait for an answer, "Six, do you think?"

He smiles, taken in as always by her jesting. "Oooh," he pretends to think. "No fewer than ten, I think."

"Ten?" she laughs. "Well, I guess you shall have to have a John, and a Much, Jack, Will, an Allan--several Richards for good measure." She smiles up at him as he agrees.

"Oh, no doubt."

"And _I_," she stresses, "shall require a Saffiya to teach my keen embroidery skills..."

"And," he cuts her off, "a Marian...na." He gives her a look of utmost intimacy, adding an 'a' to her name. "And she shall always be my best and favorite."

Marian draws his hand down to her stomach, from which such dreams might be fulfilled, hugging his arm and smiling with all her might. "Oh," she begins a pout, "and I suppose you will insist on teaching her to shoot, callousing her precious baby fingers before she is yet three?"

Before he can reply, the smile quickly fades from his face as his eye follows the line of his arm down to his hand, where it rests in Marian's near the bloody (now seeping) wound in her belly. He cannot meet her gaze again, instead gripping her hand more tightly, and closing his eyes slowly, his posture going limp beside the tree he is sitting against.

In the next shot we see of him, Robin is slumped, eyes still gripped closed, against the tree, _truly_ alone. 


	18. Allan's Reckoning

Perhaps a month or so later...

**SCENE:** So late it might be taken as early, deep in Sherwood, yet some small distance away from the camp. There is no nearby fire, as Robin lies asleep without bedroll or covering blanket on naught but roots and last fall's mouldering leaves. Allan is doing some little better nearer the base of a large tree, leaned against it as one might when keeping watch. Much and Little John are not to be seen. Allan-A-Dale is literally keeping one eye open, and it is impossible to tell if he is, himself, asleep.

With a great sucking-in of breath, Robin leaps to his feet shouting, "To the King! To the King!" But even as he goes on, his clouded eyes establish for us that he is not aware of his surroundings. His mind is in the Holy Land, and it falls to Allan to get hold of him (not easily done) and try to talk him into lying back down, or at least not waking all of Nottinghamshire, nor injuring himself.

He gets a knee to the solar plexus for his troubles, and manages to dive out of the way of the non-existent sword Robin is attempting to brandish in defense of a King thousands of miles and several deserts away. One good bone-crunching rugby tackle later and Allan at least has Robin to ground--if not asleep. Rather, quite awake and feeling ferocious.

"What do you think you're doing, you?"

Allan attempted to get his wind back in order to answer.

Robin looked about him. "Where's Much?"

Allan looked back in the direction of camp.

"Asleep? And so should you be!" Robin nearly spat the words, such was his temper.

"Well, wouldn't I rather!" Allan shouted back, his solar plexus still reminding him of the well-landed blow.

Robin's expression reads, 'what's keeping you?' as he throws his hands out in invitation, gesturing back to camp. "_I_ shall take your watch then, Allan."

"My watch?" he scoffed back, irritated at the blow to his ego, and his body, and annoyed that Robin took the whole incident to mean that he hadn't been doing his job. "My bloody watch? And what sort of fey-kind have you become that you may be both watcher _and_ watched?"

"What do you mean by that?"

Allan scoffed again and turned as though to accept the invitation to return to camp.

But Robin ran to block his way and restated his question, now as a challenge. "What do you mean by that?" His sunken-from-sleeplessness eyes looked wild, ready to brawl.

His own lack of sleep and sore bones loosened Allan's tongue. "Can't leave you alone, can we? Wouldn't know where to find you tomorrow if we did."

Robin's entire demeanor altered in a moment. His shoulders caved in on themselves, and he exhaled in a way that terrified Allan. It seemed very nearly as though Robin were about to weep. Robin seemed to sense it too, and looked up, far up past the invisible-in-night trees in order to hold his reaction in. "Tell me," he declared when his voice returned to him. "I will hear it."

Allan knew Much would disagree with the telling, perhaps John as well, but he was alone here, making his own decisions. A man had a right to know what he got up to at night, certainly. "You talk in your sleep, and walk, and just now, apparently fight. It is no wonder Much refuses to leave your side."

"If that is so," Robin queried back, trying to deny Allan's statements, "if it is such a grave concern to him, where is he tonight?"

"Little John and I talked it over, and gave him a little something in his stew--something John knew about."

"You drugged Much?"

"Well, he has to sleep sometime, hasn't he? Or he'll soon be barmy as you." That statement bold, perhaps, but not unwarranted. He stopped to check Robin's reaction to it. "I think you're killing him."

"Much?" Robin felt a cold chill at the thought, at his ignorance of all he was being told. "Have we no fire?"

"Can't have one near you. Two weeks ago you rolled Much into it in a scuffle. You thought he was Gisborne, I reckon, he said. You were killin' him."

Robin flopped back onto the unaccommodating forest floor as though his knees had been cut out from under him. "His vest. That explains his charred vest. He told me he singed it making breakfast, but I was hard pressed to see how one catches their back afire cooking eggs."

"Well," Allan commiserated momentarily, "it is Much, innit?"

"What else, Allan? Tell me all, if you've the stomach for it."

Allan narrowed his eyes. They two had not had such a talk like this in--perhaps, ever. And so he seized on the chance. "You tell me what you dream about, and I'll tell you what you dream about, how's that for fair play?"

Robin's eyebrows drew together. He didn't like the idea, but it was unlikely that Much or Little John would tell him. And he needed to know.

Allan added, "Reckon we've all got Crusader's sickness now, or something fair like it. Got to find some way to deal with it so we can go on livin'."

"Have we?" It was not a denial.

"Well, there's Much, constantly saying and maybe even believing it will all be okay, but he's a wreck inside like all the rest of us. You, you ignore it, and so here it spills out of you all night long. John, he just puts his head down and focuses on the job."

"And you, what of you, Allan?"

"Me? I try to have a bit of fun as a way to forget, but frankly, you all are bringing me down. And Will and D'Jaq," he unexpectedly referenced the two members of the gang that had not returned to Sherwood. "They're too loved up and too far away from it to bother." His tone was tinged ever-so slightly with bitter. "Carter's in the ground, feeding the worms--or whatever lives in sand, and the King's got an army to keep him busy, yeah?"

"I dream of a woman," Robin began. "_Not_ Marian," he said, upon seeing Allan's face. "She sends me home from Crusade, every night. Her eyes just...turn into scorpions. I cannot get her to stop stinging me, though I beg to stay and serve the King."

"And that's _all_ you dream of? Nothing more?"

Robin felt like that was quite enough.

"All night, every night?"

"It is all I remember."

"Well, here you kill Gisborne near every night. You apologize to Edward again and again, and," he waited this for last; he did not like to say it. "You call for Marian." Allan looked to his leader's reaction. "Fortnight ago you got up and went to find her. Much lost you in the dark in the woods. He found you, early next morning asleep in the underbrush just barely concealed from Guy's new parade ground at Knighton." He sighed. "None of us slept much for a week after that."

Robin, as was his way, did not apologize, though many would have. He became quiet, letting his mood turn introspective. "And so all this, over me?" It was as if this reveal simply solidified some decision already in his mind. "And you, Allan, suffering from Crusader's sickness, 'or something fair like it'. What do you dream of?"

And like that, Allan felt the moment of reckoning had come. Oddly he did not feel the need to lash out, nor defend himself, and though his characteristic flair for tale-stretching did not desert him, he consciously chose not to make use of it, but rather to be perfectly frank and honest. It had taken him more than one bad decision and devil's alliance to figure it out, but he owed Robin much more than a well-spun yarn.

"I wait for you to kill me."

Robin had rather expected him to say something bawdy like "a triple-breasted wench", or "swimming naked in gold coins". Something to lighten the mood. Something much-needed in this conversation as far as he was concerned. Nonetheless, he listened.

"I used to have nightmares in the castle. Bad, ugly-bugger dreams where Guy would hand me bags of silver--like in the mystery plays. But when I would open them, instead of silver, he would have put your head in. And thing is, you were always laughing, sneering up at me, your head, like you were in on the joke." A tingle danced along his spine with the horrifying memory. "The whole time in Nottingham, it was like when I was a boy, at home. Scared of every moment, the smallest thing able to tip the balance, bring a beating down on your head. The slightest mistake..." His voice trailed off.

"I could kill you now," Robin said, but it was not a joke, not a lightheartedly said thing. "Now, I feel I could kill anyone." It was a cold truth, bleakly shared.

"When I was here, with you all, I used to worry: what would I do to gum up the works? Everything hung on a knife's edge, and always I waited for, expected, the moment I would bring it all down on my head. I scrambled all the time for so long to try and keep myself in check, to be able to keep my place here. To deserve to belong. But I think all along I knew better."

So the joker, the life-of-the-party Allan was not to make an appearance here this night, Robin realized. No talk of large women, tales of well-thrown dice or naughty milk-maids. Very well. "Do you want to know why you chose Gisborne, Allan? I will tell you. You lost your faith when you feared the King's coming--though you had no reason to. I would have seen to you. Had things gone badly and I were left an outlaw, still I would have seen to you. And that is why you chose Gisborne and life at the castle instead of Sherwood." He took a breath. "It is an explanation, not an excuse. I'm sure other things played into the moment, but that is the truth of it."

"And you know this?" Allan's mind spun. "You believe this, yet you said nothing? You offered me no reassurance?"

"No, I did not know it. I could not see it. It was Marian who told me, Marian who understood why you convinced Will to run away with Gisborne's loot that day. Marian who learnt long after the fact that same Gisborne had you starved, sleep-deprived and tortured into a traitor's pact."

"And that same Marian I got exposed as the Nightwatchman, and then killed?" He had never said that aloud before, though he believed it.

"Don't you _ever_ say that again." It came out of Robin as a near-feral growl. That guilt he kept for himself.

"They tortured Roy, didn't they?" Allan asked rhetorically. "But he didn't go through with what they wanted, did he? I can respect what he did, I can respect how he died, but, Robin, it's never gonna be a good day to die _for me_."

"Roy was not able to do what he was told because we were there for him, Allan. We were all of us there for each other. It is my fault. I was not there for you Allan, and you had not enough faith in me to tell the truth of your time at the castle with Gisborne. Your faith was in the payments he promised you, your belief in yourself as all you needed to get by. And my great failing was in not telling you that you had become my brother-in-arms, part of my family, and thereby letting you down."

A silence passed as both men thought on what had been said.

Robin broke it. "In the Holy Land, when a man saves your life, you would rather die by your own sword than betray him. And you would put your own life on the line times one-thousand to protect his."

"I know, I--" but Robin interrupted him.

"No, Allan, I mean me. You have had my back hundreds of times, helped me out of danger, you kept me alive by your own arrows, and dagger, on at least three separate occasions I can think of just now--no, wait, four. When I learned you had chosen Gisborne I was angry, and jealous. I did not try to understand what might have caused you to do it. That is why I banished you. And I always planned to kill you later."

"Like that day in the kitchens?"

"Well, Marian helped remind me of why I did not want to kill you. And I have not forgotten that since."

"And so you're saying we're square?" He felt incredulous, amazed, and in a spot where he rarely felt anything, thankful.

"We are brothers, Allan. We are Robin Hood. We should keep no accounting of wrongs between us."

Allan had the distinct feeling they would never speak of this again, he and Robin. In the following silence he absentmindedly pulled a dagger from inside one of his vest's concealed pockets (things any good thief needs numerous of), and began to polish it out of habit. It had been one of the last missions they went on before Gisborne caught him out in the tavern, when Robin had tossed it to him from out of one of their hauls. "Good blade," he had said, as Allan handily caught it before it stuck in the tree behind him.

It had a gold handle, with cabochon rubies inlaid. Of course, he could not carry something like that around in broad day where it could be seen, so he had quickly pried the rubies from their settings and wrapped the glistening handle in a worn leather strap. There was writing on the blade, though it could be hard to see at times. D'Jaq had told him it was in her language, a word meaning '_whole, to be safe'_.

Save this marking, it did not look much like it had before he removed the jewels, but in moments alone he did like to unbind the handle to see the gold, the divots where the twin rubies belonged.

It was one thing he had managed to keep with him from that moment, through his time at the castle with Gisborne, in the Holy Land and even until now. Perhaps there was some magic to its inscription of safety.

Day was coming upon them. Yet, as the sky began to lighten, Robin's thoughts swung to the dark and he broke their new-born companionable silence. "I dream of that woman because I should never have come back from Crusade. I think it would have been best had I died there of the scurvy that had re-opened my wound."

"Nah, I cannot have that, Robin. What of the hand, the fingers, you saved me that first day in the wood, me caught out as a poacher? Or when you kept me from hanging with Benedict Giddons and the others?"

Robin disputed. "Or the time I failed to save your brother from the same fate? The times innumerable I've had people die in my name, as when you mention Roy--die in Robin Hood's name? The grief I've wrought on people who had faith in a man that can only let them down, who can only cause pain wherever he goes?"

Allan strongly countered with, "My brother died as one of Robin Hood's men, which made him more in death that he ever was in life. And I've become something more than just a thief, right? At least I hope so. Learned a little bit from all of you, haven't I? Not totally worthless, am I?"

"No, Allan, not totally worthless."

Now they were back to themselves, the sunlight banishing their night of truths. Allan ran the point of the dagger carefully under his fingernails to clean them, and his own thoughts turned--if not serious--then inquisitive. "But what kind of decent girl, really, the kind you might one day want to make a life with, wants to be with, 'the man who betrayed Robin Hood?'"

"And so that is to explain your recent streak of celibacy, is it? Even the plain ones will have none of you?" Robin actually smirked.

"Well, 'twould seem even the ugly ones have a soft spot for you."

"Ah. I shall remember that the next time I encounter an ugly one. What you need is a fine wild Welshwoman who's never heard of Robin Hood or Nottingham. Say the word, brother. We'll go and get her when you're ready."

_Brother_. It was not lost on Allan-A-Dale, who knew that though the night had brought many things into the open, it had still fallen short of mending others. And while he did believe he and Robin were "square" with one another, their talk had not dispelled Robin's black mood permanently, nor offered any fix for the turmoil that seemed destined to spill from his psyche nightly. Allan did not believe any of the gang could yet relax their guard. Neither on their own behavior, nor on their protection of one another.

Rest would yet again have to wait for another day. 


	19. England to France

Around episode four or five, Robin receives a coded message from a King's messenger, the meaning of which he will share with no one, although he is up front with the gang about that fact. The message comes with a dove/pigeon to enable a brief reply. Yet, instead of sending a reply, Robin tells the gang he has to take a trip alone, and will say no more, instructing them to dispatch the reply pigeon at any emergency and he will return immediately. Again, trust issues arise.

Just prior to Robin's departure, an always-nearby Much hears Robin speaking to vision Marian, in which he promises her, "we will be together soon," and though Robin means 'in France', Much thinks the worst.

Fearing for his former Master's sanity and his very life (believing he may mean to commit suicide to join Marian in the afterlife [Marian, whom Much still believes is a wandering ghost]), and not knowing where he is heading, Much follows him, though to elude getting caught by Robin he must necessarily hang far behind him on the journey. We discover the message is about Marian. Marian is alive! The message, in the King's own code, is from Salima, the nurse: Marian will live. Her convalescence will still be lengthy and the percentage to which she will fully return to her former self is still uncertain at the time of her writing.

No doubt foolishly, but totally understandably, Robin races to France. What he has to say will not fit on a pigeon-gram. So focused is he on his destination he does not notice Much is following him.

Robin arrives at the French nunnery in record time. It is said the order domiciled there is conveniently (or, inconveniently) under a vow of silence and entertains no petitioners.

At this midway point our season's (or series' if you'd rather) story remains split two ways: _England_ - Sherwood (Little John & Allan-A-Dale) and Nottingham (Sheriff and Gisborne); and _France_ - Marian and Robin, and Salima and Much. Only Robin and Much have moved geographical location by stepping into the previous B-plot [you may argue amongst yourselves as to whether Robin transferring to a B-plot then advances it to an A-plot (and then, do we have two dueling A-plots?) or not], I suppose turning it into the new A and the main focus (for the moment).

The new B-plot (as we will call it, not meaning to denigrate its importance in any way) experiences an unexpected twist in Robin and Much's absence.

An Unexpected Twist  
That spring sees yet another Knight return to Nottinghamshire and his home. Stunning serf and noble alike, a man claiming the name Knighton arrives just in time to discomfit Sir Guy at the Hall (luvvly when folks keep doing that to the chap). But this is no proud return, rather the man finally identified as Sir Clem (in fact, Marian's brother, long-thought dead) of Knighton comes home broken in body if not in spirit. Having no real use of his legs, and somewhat limited upper mobility, his needs in life, his very movement from chair to chair and room to room is overseen by a tongueless servant known only as Wad.

And while this Wad would give Little John a run for his money in the size and strength department, even his immense physical power pales next to the charismatic presence and regal dignity of his master, Sir Clem. Clem's near immobile frame is unable to dim this fact. [Clem is played by a dark-haired Elliot Cowan, and no, I don't usually cast my OCs with actors.]

War-injured pre-Crusade in Richard's then army, Clem seems to the sheriff ripe for the plucking: for who would wish Richard's death and/or overthrow more that a thought-dead, paralyzed, forgotten former soldier?

And so the sheriff willingly and rather quickly concedes Knighton to Clem, also granting him Bonchurch's fields and lodge to compensate for the loss of forest Gisborne's burning wrought, and then ftes his return in grand style.

For he knows what few others (even of the council of nobles) seem not to recall: Before he left for the wars, Edward of Knighton disinherited Clem after several public instances in which their distaste for one another was well-displayed. And this, along with the Sheriff's belief that Clem holds Richard responsible for his grave injuries, has the sheriff convinced he has a new noble conspirator. Surely, giving the returned knight what his estranged, proven-traitor father refused him (his land, his money, his title) can only strengthen the Nottingham-Knighton bond.

* * *

Little John and Allan-A-Dale are beside themselves: is this man Clem who he says he is? Or yet another opportunist (sorry, Guy) laying claim to lands and people that are Robin's by right?

And if he is for real, how much of a threat is he to Robin Hood and the King as an ally to the sheriff?

Clem _is_ greatly changed from the young man he was when he left for a soldier (pre-Crusade) with an already warring (then not-yet-King) Richard. Yet he is Marian's brother, Edward's son. _Robin's bloody brother-in-law._ Should he not be told the truths of his family's deaths? Of those responsible? That they are the self-same men hoping to curry his favor? Would he then not naturally feel very different about where he allegiances lie? But how? How best to approach him?

John and Allan go back and forth on the issue amongst themselves endlessly. So much so they actually long for the nattering presence of Much to break the monotony of their argument.

When Robin departed for France, he gave instructions to all to lay low and focus only on the poor, taking on no additional hardships or missions as just the three were left in the gang (as he thought at the time Much was staying behind), but the arrival of Sir Clem creates too many new challenges and too much "the-devil-you-don't-know" uncertainty, even in the day-to-day of simply servicing the hungry poor. Things take a decided turn for the worst when Little John is caught snooping around Knighton Hall's well-filled granary and is thrown into irons by order of Clem and required to serve a four-month period of time in hard labor at the Hall. It seems only a matter of time before the Sheriff or Gisborne discover him there. It is only Clem's understandable ignorance of him as a dead man and outlaw that protects him. Under Wad's ever-watchful glare day and night, even resourceful Allan is at wit's-end over how to plan a successful one-man rescue.

* * *

_Back on the journey to France..._  
As Robin has visions of Marian, so Much has visions of a highly idealized or rather, idolized Robin during this time. It is apparent to us almost immediately that it is not the actual Robin. This Robin is taller, more eloquent, more "golden", more heroic (his hair is shinier, his eyes more twinkly, etc). Their interactions are often comical, as Idol Robin gives Much encouragement and help in covertly following real Robin. In many ways these periods of unreal comradeship offer true insight into Much and his former Master's relationship. When the real Robin finally "catches out" Much for tracking him, it will take both Much and the audience a moment to tell it is not the Idol Robin of the visions.

**SCENE:** Southwestern France, the fortified abbey stronghold of King Richard in which it was revealed in episode three Marian is being kept. Much, following on the heels of Robin for the duration of the journey, has pitched his secret solitary camp nearby this location.

Robin has also set a camp. _Odd,_ thinks Much, as his master has traveled to this point blazingly fast as an arrow aflame. Yet now he'd sat for more than an afternoon's time contemplating a stack of firewood he'd earlier assembled-all within an easy distance of a large castle-like building out of which and into which no one came or went.

Finally, his confusion and curiosity at fever pitch, Much attempts his own reconnaissance. That evening, a lone figure emerges through the great 20-foot high siege doors, and turns Much's world on its ear. Not even he could have expected this.

Back at his small camp, Vision Idol Robin emerges from the forest undergrowth to speak with him.

"My good Bonchurch," he called, causing Much to blush-but with pride. "What's today's to-do?"

"At the castle," Much fell back on that word to describe the unknown edifice, "the woman," he swallowed, his breath still coming quickly with the realization. "The woman who sent you home from Crusade. She's here." He waited a moment and said it again, hoping to add emphasis, "She's here," his eyes slightly bugged from the effort.

"Why, if she is here, my friend-my best and most-noble comrade-if Richard's Saracen nurse is here, that can mean only one thing, can it not?"

"The King," Much replied reverently. "The King and his court are here. In France. They have left the Holy Land, and surely must be planning a return to England."

"And so, you think, that is why I have come?"

"Yes," Much answered with ringing confidence. "But," his confidence characteristically waned almost immediately. "If that is why you have come, why did you not tell us? Why did you not bring us with you every one, to escort the King home? To England? To defeat the Sheriff and Prince John?"

"Why? Hmmm," the vision Robin rubbed his bearded chin in an uber-attractive way to telegraph thought. "Could it be that I could not bring everyone, and I wished you to oversee matters in Sherwood during my absence? Could it be that I meant to leave you, my right-hand man, in charge of the others and their activities?"

"Oh, dear," moaned Much, following his own mis-informed logic. "Of course, of course that's what you wanted, and I've mucked it all up!"

"Easy, there, Much," the vision placed a warm, sensitive hand on Much's far-grimier shoulder. "Have you not tracked me with all expertise? Have you not eluded discovery all this time? Are you not the most loyal of bosom friends this world has yet to offer a man?" He all but placed his other hand over his heart. "Yes," Vision Robin answered himself stoutly. "You are. I will be overjoyed to see you here, to have you come to my-and the King's-aid. Go now, Bonchurch to my Locksley, go and present yourself to me at my camp. Within the hour I've no doubt we shall dine with the Lionheart himself, and on venison and beef roast, at that."

When Much smiled back at the vision, he all but had tears of love, of admiration, still in his eyes.

* * *

**SCENE:** Robin's campsite. As Much noted, he has been staring at gathered firewood for some time, as though he were frozen in place. Vision Marian stepped near the prepared fire ring, conversationally asking, "So, what're you doing, then?"

"I cannot go in there," Robin told her, baldly and without other salutation. He did not even look at her.

"So you plan to travel all this distance, only to contemplate kindling wood? Well, I must be far less interesting than I had previously thought, if brittle dry stacks of sticks prove more entertaining to a man of refined tastes such as yourself, my lord."

"You know that's not what it is." It was a foolish enough statement to refute.

"Can't do it?" she mused for him, repeating his declaration. "Seems to me you've proven lately you can certainly do a lot of things." She spoke as though she'd caught him out in something, and she was waiting for him to confess. Her voice was lightly sing-song in that way a woman's could become in just such an instance.

He did not bite.

So she re-cast her line, with a larger, shinier lure this time. "A month ago, Nettlestone Village, on the road to Nottingham. After you 'borrowed' that priest's wagon. I know you kissed that girl. Did you even know her name?"

He exhaled sharply. It was not the turn he had expected this conversation to take. "Yes, well, _that_ has nothing to do with _this_."

"Nothing to do with this?" Her voice's timbre threatened to raise to that not-quite hysterical of a fully pitched fight.

"She reminded me of you, that's all," he responded, rising from the forest floor and taking her hands in his, doing his best to present himself as genuine.

"Reminded you of me? A rarely-washed, provocatively dressed shepherdess and some-time tavern wench by the name of Brunhild reminded you of _me_?" Her voice still threatened to jump yet another half-octave. "And when you see a woman that reminds you of your mother, do you attempt to hide amongst her skirts as you used to do? Do you expect her to arrange for your meals, or nurse you when you are ill?" she asked, now archly.

"Ah," he asked, his voice smooth, "and have you seen my mother lately?"

"Stop that," she demanded, her own tone now low and flat. "I am not dead."

"Aren't you?" he asked, for that was surely one answer he feared was waiting on the other side of the convent's walls. Time, after all, had passed since the sending and receipt of the message saying that she would live.

"No more so than you are."

"Me? You reference the state of my being? My existence? I am a man, Marian, a man in love. A man in deepest grief, and a man who perjures himself daily, living as though you are dead. What kind of a man is that? What kind of a _life_ is that? I am tired of waiting. I am sick of postponement. I want life to start with you, out of the shadows-"

"Then I do not see what keeps you here in the forest, now that you are so close to that which you claim to desire. Am I not just beyond those castle walls? Can your deep grief not be assuaged by passing through those doors? Can this life you speak of then not start? Is that not why you flew here, as if the devil himself were on your heels?"

It amazed him that he had to tell her, to parse it out in words. That she could not know what dark cloud was in his mind. "I think it quite possible you, beyond those castle doors, do not wish to ever see me again. After all, I have failed you repeatedly. And I have sent you away without explanation. You may recall the last time one of us went away without explanation, and how badly that played out," he referenced his departure for the Crusades.

"We are _married_, Robin. No matter how hasty the ceremony. In the eyes of heaven we are one. Your burdens have become mine, and mine yours. So what if you fear the reception you may encounter? You have traveled all this way from the safety of Sherwood. If you bring the woman inside nothing else, bring her the explanation you so fiercely seem to believe you owe her."

"If she yet lives," he added, realizing he was exhausted to the very bone.

"She yet lives," he heard in an unfamiliar voice, and pushing aside a tree branch in order to enter the clearing was the woman Salima, allaying his greatest fear with the simple statement.

Tears leapt into his eyes at hearing her speak the words, and he cast about the clearing for the Vision Marian-for he wished someone to share the moment with, but she was gone, as she should be.

"I had hoped you would not come," the Saracen woman said, "would just let the message be, but when I told your lady of the messenger I sent, she assured me that I must be on the lookout for you, that you were not one to keep your distance, even at great personal risk. I see now she was right. I see now it would do me little good to remind you that you should not be here."

"Will she see me?" He had heard nothing spoken, other than, 'your lady'.

"Follow me," Salima instructed, picking her way out of the forest, walking with a strange ease, and a firm footing, though her now-European kirtle would seem likely to hamper anyone traveling the unused, overgrown path.

* * *

Much arrived at Robin's camp too late, just in time to follow him on the path and find him entering through the abbey's siege doors with Salima. _"Oooh. That woman!"_ Not wanting to reveal himself to Robin in front of her and confess his disobedience, he situates himself to wait at Robin's campsite, not knowing what a long wait it may prove to be before he sees Robin again. 


	20. Reunited

_Author's Notes/Indulgent Points of Interest for this work, general and divided by section title, may be found at my author's profile. (Just click on the link "Neftzer" in the upper left of the screen)_

* * *

**SCENE:** We are now inside the cool stone of the abbey fortress, the wooden siege doors closed and secured behind us. No threat may be present unless it emanates from within, and though Robin has plenty of faith in the safety Richard's protection may offer him here (though the King is still in the Holy Land), he is still a turmoil inside, a boiling pot of conflicted feelings and unresolved grief. And a bone weariness that only now has made itself known, though he has not slept well since before his disastrous birthday of Season Two, nearly a ten-month ago.

Salima proved a reserved guide through the corridors, making little noise and saying less in the quiet, somber halls. The only sound (as Robin's boots were too soft and worn of leather to have their soles resound against the stone floor) was the more-than-occasional cracking open of a door, and it took him some time to realize in his crowded mind that the abbey's inhabitants were spying on Salima and him as they traversed the passageways to where Marian was.

He was reminded of the vow of silence all herein had taken, and of the fact they entertained no visitors from the outside. He and the dusky-skinned nurse from the distant King's court in the Holy Land must surely be quite the exotic curiosity. He did for a moment wonder what, if anything, the women here knew of their strange history.

After following his "Lady Fate" (as he thought of her in his mind) down several more corridors where the sounds of doors opening behind them had fallen away, Salima stopped in front of a wooden door, unadorned with carvings. Unlike the countless other doors they had passed, this one had no small cut hole covered by an iron grate through which the person on the outside might easily see in. He noticed as she pulled it open that the door was somewhat swollen in the damp, and it took a special effort to keep it from dragging on the floor and creating a loud and unpleasant noise. It comforted him to think that she had had the keeping of Marian, for surely someone with such an attentiveness would be good for a convalescent. The thought of this kept him from realizing that they were not entering yet another antechamber, but rather a single room, which surely held Marian.

The candles in the room burned low, and though the room had no proper window (only a slit in the far wall no thicker than a child's arm), he knew from the length of their journey here the sun would surely have set outside. In the candles' half-light, the room did not appear to be occupied at present, and he turned back to Richard's Saracen to question her with a look: _had Marian gone out? Was she in another chamber? In their absence could she have been moved?_ But Salima had deliberately let him step into the room more deeply than she, and using the same effort on the swollen door, had pulled it to as silently as she had first opened it. He was alone.

Near a cluster of candles he spied a washbasin made ready for use, towel laid out nearby. In the middle of the opposite wall, he saw a bed, nothing like one might find at Locksley Manor, but its crude construction suited the austerity of its surroundings. And it appeared the woman had also attempted to make that ready, as it seemed heaped with blankets. That much he could see, even in the near darkness.

But certainly he could not look to rest or refreshment at a time like this, his heart beating so loudly in the silence of the abbey he could hear nothing else. _Marian!_ his being shouted for her, gooseflesh breaking out over his arms and neck. He was an arrow nocked, ready to fly, the fingers holding it back beginning to tremble with the effort of restraint.

He made several paces through the room and moved toward the door, to question Salima.

But he did not make it to the latch. Despite the dimness, out of the corner of his archer's eye he saw the pile of blankets on the bed shift.

She slept.

Marian, swathed in what he had taken to be an empty pile of blankets and coverlets, slept. In the bed. In the abbey. In France. Before him.

He watched her.

He could no longer recall the trip from the forest through the convent's siege doors. He could no longer describe the features of the woman he had first met in the Holy Land now in attendance just outside this room. His voyage from England and Sherwood was beyond his limited cognizance, now. It all fell away. It was as if his soul had been hovering some space above his body, halfway to Heaven, halfway out of this present world for as long as he could remember, and just as a mother first feels her child quickening in her womb, as it kicks and makes its presence no longer in doubt, so his soul, with a great thudding blow to the inside of his chest seemed to return to him.

His mouth grew dry, but he could not bring himself to step away to the pitcher and the water. His legs threatened to cramp, no longer used to treading long whiles on hard castle stone. His eyes wanted for a candle's light so that he might better see her, but he would not turn away to locate the nearest one.

Marian slept. And he watched, and was fascinated.

He catalogued a thousand things he imagined about her that had changed: her hair, her ears, the cut of her nails. _Had she not lost weight? Did she appear feverish? Had there always been a bump, just there, on her wrist?_ But even as he did it he knew he was a fool. She was Marian, unchanged to his eyes. With a heavy exhale, his knees gave way, and he salvaged this result of exhaustion into a fair approximation of kneeling at her bedside.

His haunted eyes did not move from her face as he prayed devotedly, reverently, and silently, his lips moving to the words in this (he believed) Holiest of rooms, in this consecrated edifice. Robin, once and surely future Earl of Huntingdon, of the manor and village of Locksley, thanked God as he had never thanked Him before, not at Acre, not the day Gisborne had come for Richard, not the day he and Much returned to see Locksley once more. He prayed, but his eyes remained open, sealed on her face, on the peacefulness of her slumber. He prayed until his bones felt as cold and ancient as Methuselah's, until he found his way again back to earth, and into the earthly body he had been living in so roughly these many months.

Without waking her, without so much as removing his boots, and in his fatigue with no grace left to his movements, he climbed into the narrow bed next to her.

And though Robin had not asked for it, had, in his prayer of thanks asked for nothing, God granted him sleep.

* * *

The final shot of the episode, our perfect half-way mark in the season, begins on Robin falling into bed, exhausted, with an oblivious, asleep Marian. Over some appropriately peaceful, pastoral (fulfilled rather than yearning) music, the camera shows Salima on the other side of the door, herself now laying down for rest in front of the door, not knowing what might be taking place inside the room, but guarding its contents like a faithful watchdog. From there we are shown Much, asleep, who has made a place for himself at Robin's forest camp, where he waits for his master's return. And then back to far-off Sherwood, where Allan is shown sleeping uncharacteristically alone at a closed-up camp, and John is found asleep uncomfortably, shackled in a barn stall at Knighton (reminding us of the circumstances of his capture). And then, back again to the abbey room, where the camera shot rests on a side-view of Marian's face (she is asleep on her back). We see her candle-lit profile, and then the camera adjusts in a nifty moment to show us Robin's sleeping face with a tilt and a refocus. (He is asleep to the left side of her, on his side, facing her.) So in a one-shot we have the right-side profile of Marian asleep, and the left side of Robin (the side not against the pillow). Two perfect halves, alive, re-united, and for the moment, at peace.

**TBC**


	21. Enter the Sheriff

**SCENE:** Nottingham, the castle's outer bailey. The Sheriff and Gisborne stand among preparations, if not for a garden party, then certainly for an unusual outdoor gathering. As they speak, the Sheriff moves here and there busily re-arranging things to his liking that have been laid out in preparation of an afternoon meal.

**Gisborne:** All this trouble for...  
**Sheriff:** What, a disinherited cripple? Or a valiant war hero? Which do you think, Gisborne?  
**Gisborne:** [rolls eyes] Well, valiant war hero certainly makes it easier to swallow. [He is still pouting over the loss of Knighton]  
**Sheriff:** [answering his own question] Doesn't matter, doesn't matter. It's all in the perception. Treat him as a formidable ally, and so he shall be seen. In fact, so he shall become.  
**Gisborne:** And he shall owe it all to you?  
**Sheriff:** Without my support and patronage he'd still be Sir Clem-of what? Of nothing.  
**Gisborne:** [sulkily] Sounds familiar.  
**Sheriff:** [distractedly placating him] Your day will come, Gisborne. Your giving up Knighton to the cause will not be forgotten. [now with conviction] This Clem being on our side, it's essential. _Or_, does he remind you too much of the sister? Hmmm? Those same brunet good looks? No doubt the same soft, cool hands?  
[Before the Sheriff can lewdly suggest setting up a potential tryst, Gisborne interrupts petulantly]  
**Gisborne:** Let's hope, for your sake, not the same penchant for deceit and betrayal. [He says it acidly, of necessity to convince the Sheriff of his callousness and continued loyalty, but does not feel it]  
**Sheriff:** And to whom would he betray us? We have conveniently obliterated his family, the King has forgotten him, the larger world has believed him long dead. He has no circle of acquaintances, social or otherwise.  
**Gisborne:** What of Hood?  
**Sheriff:** Thought you'd never ask. [Savoring it] Allow me to jog your memory: Were we not both present when Robin Hood, in a fit of rabid jealousy, killed Clem's sister so brutally before your very eyes, your heart's true love, your known fiance?  
[Gisborne suppresses a shiver]  
**Sheriff:** [Clucks his tongue] Tch tch. I should hardly think he would wish to conspire with a man such as Hood.  
**Gisborne:** Excellent plan, my lord.  
**Sheriff:** [feigning confusion] Plan? What plan? No, we must not appear as plotters to him, I feel. We must show ourselves merely disgruntled with Richard at first, until we are sure we have him.  
**Gisborne:** [agreeing] He has more than a little of Edward's pride, it would seem.  
**Sheriff:** Well, you would know that better than I, Gisborne, having been so [draws it out] _in-ti-mate_ with the old punching bag, eh? [smiles toothily, shadowboxes the air]  
**Gisborne:** And if he speaks with the people and learns the truth of these things?  
**Sheriff:** [disgusted, almost spitting out the words] The _people_, Gisborne? Really, you're starting to sound like Hood. [incredulous] The lords speak with the people? I shall take your comment as a poor attempt at humor...and hope our luncheon guest proves more entertaining. 


	22. The Look of Love

_Notes for this work, by section, may be found at my author's profile._

* * *

**SCENE:** Marian woke as she had, miraculously, every day since Gisborne's blade had seemed with all finality to bisect her innards that day some half-year ago in the Holy Land.

That is, there were plenty of days in the aftermath in which she woke not at all, but through the skill and tenacity of Salima the day had come where she came back into herself enough to wake regularly every day thereafter.

This day proved no different. _France_, her mind recalled to her, even before her eyes had fully opened. Not that she had seen so much as a half-day's viewing of the countryside, of Aquitaine, Richard's storied home where she now rested. She was again a prisoner of sorts. Ever the princess locked away in the high tower.

Awaiting rescue? Not exactly. Awaiting the return of enough strength to affect her own rescue.

The past months had gifted her with a queer new patience. Though she did not imagine her hot blood gone forever, enforced rest and recuperation had brought about that which neither her father nor any of her lady training teachers had been able to instill in her: a level of patience and introspection that had brought her more fully into her adulthood.

But it had been the result of sorrowful experience as well, far away from home, from friends, from anything familiar. All that differentiated her time in France from her time captive by the Sheriff's hand on the way to and finally in the Holy Land was Salima. And though at times this new attendant seemed terse, guarded and hard to puzzle out, Marian found her to be a most welcome companion.

During her captivity Marian had been restrained physically by the Sheriff-now she was held back by the limitations of her own body, broken, and still healing. And, she had been told, restrained on the orders of her King and sovereign, Richard Plantagenet, Coeur-de-Lion, Duke of Aquitaine, King of England-the only authority left for her to recognize over her life. No father, no brothers...no husband.

Ah, husband. _Wait_, called her mind, the cobwebs of sleep brushed away.

She rolled from her right side onto her back and stretched. Perhaps it was something about the morning, something about the particular feel of the covers and nightclothes on her skin that made her stretching and her re-positioning awaken something amorous. Something smouldering like a banked fire, oft forgotten or overlooked, but always there, deep within the lowest part of her belly. But more likely it was the hold-your-breath quality the word 'husband' left her with. And the anticipation of the moment's electricity (however far-off that moment might be) when Robin (wherever he now was), her _husband_ would first touch _his_ skin-any part of it-to hers.

Bits of her ached, having nothing to do with her scarred-over wound, ached in a way to which she was not entirely accustomed.

But it was pointless to dwell on a physical reunion, dreaming. Such thoughts brought only more tension-growing from pleasantly tingling distractions to a throbbing soreness like taut snakes nesting in her belly.

Pointless, she always told herself to get past such moments, past the temptation to lengthen them. Marian abandoned the position on her back that invited further cat-like stretches and caused her legs to fall apart from one another, rolling instead to her left side.

Her left side, and revelation: she found herself nose-to-nose with that same longed-for husband.

For here Robin slept, undisturbed by her turnings.

In a moment she had her world re-colored. She _had_ been staring at a wall, its slit that showed some light of the outside world. A wall she had studied of necessity more days and nights than she could count. Then, on her back she had found she must turn away from longing, only to find her heart's desire, her every hope, here.

She thought to touch him, to make certain of his permanence. As she extended it, her hand shook with the thought. In her illness she had no doubt hallucinated many times. She wished to assure herself she was not doing so now.

But something instinctual stopped her hand.

If her tossing about in the same rickety bed as the Knighted-by-Richard himself Robin of Locksley, member of the King's elite personal guard, renown (okay, somewhat renown) outlaw, man-on-the-run-on whose alertness, whose vigilance and perspicacity his own life and the lives of his men depended, if her unexpected movement so nearby failed to rouse him, surely his need for sleep was greater far than her need to establish his corporeal-ness.

She could not imagine his coming in and not waking her. Salima, surely, could be quiet as a mouse at will. But Robin, who was all impetuousness and breathless in-the-moment, Robin who was likely to rush in on such occasions where angels feared to tread. Well, it did not seem like him to travel all this way and not shake her from her slumber so that he might greet her, tell her about his adventures in the coming. _Wait_. She had to remind herself: that was the Robin before Crusade had tempered him into the man. That was the boy. Here lay the man. The man who had counseled against just such behavior in the wake of her father's death. The man who had taken _her_ breath away with his over-a-corpse proposal in Sherwood Forest, yet who obviously had been contemplating the question he asked for some time. The man who valued a good plan, who had learned to wait for the right moment. Yes, here lay the man.

Long ago she had come to love that boy. Had let that boy sell her on such hopes for a future, such dreams and possibilities of them together. Had, in the end, made that boy in her mind into something he could never have hoped to have been: her solution, her rescue from that which her life threatened to be: small, close, circumscribed and pointless.

She had grieved that boy, her escape hatch, when she had thought him lost forever to battle. She had detested that boy (as she had thought him when first he returned), until ultimately she had come to know that boy, that Robin, to be gone.

It was only so very occasionally in this man that she caught a glimpse of him anymore, a devilish impudence that made the apples of his cheeks dance, and twinkled his eyes. A longing for all-accepting love the boy had never yet outgrown. (Nor should he.)

The boy had had not the sun- and wind-lined face she looked upon now as Robin the man slept, the half-circles around the outer rim of his left eye that crinkled when he smiled-or wept, had not the sword-calloused hands to match those made by his bowstring.

A knock came to the door, quietly, but with authority, interrupting her study of him, and Marian was not surprised moments later when Salima entered the room.

"Is he not perfect?" Marian could not help asking, her happiness at his presence prompting a sort of sunny silliness in her she would not usually have thought possible. "Is he not utter perfection?"

"Lady," responded Salima, "he smells," certainly herself not feeling anything uncharacteristic due to Robin of Locksley's arrival, other than a few bodily twinges from a night spent on hard castle stone. She did announce his stench with a tone of some bemused indulgence, for she had grown to care for Marian, and for Marian's cares. "I shall wake him to wash," she offered, noting the undisturbed basin, water and towel she had set aside for him last night.

"If you disturb him in any way, I shall not eat for a week, and," (for Marian's own tone was still rather silly with happiness), "I shall write of my displeasure to the King. And I shall have you dismissed." As if she could have. She sounded not a bit angry. Through this exchange Marian did not look away from Robin's face, but had pulled herself up on one elbow, all the better to see him by.

Now it was Salima's turn to smile. "And do you look at him like this when he is awake, Lady Marian?"

"Hmm?" Her ability to respond was hampered by her happy view. "Like what? On my elbow, just so?" "No, I-I don't suppose I do."

"You should look at him like that-with that face-when he can see you."

"Why is that?"

Salima did not answer her, only asked, "And does he look at you also in this same way?"

"I don't know. He looks at me."

The caregiver's eyes narrowed. "I have never seen this look, this two people in love, looking at one another."

"What, never?" And now Marian looked away, to see Salima's face as she spoke.

"My parents were said to have been a love match, though of course they were not permitted to marry, and their lives were made difficult by their pairing. But as I do not recall them ever together, I do not know if such stories of them are true."

Marian could not help it, her eyes returned to the sleeping Robin. "And have you, Salima, never seen love in someone's eyes?" For Salima's great beauty was not lost on Marian, who knew a little of what, in lordly circles, feminine beauty could achieve.

"I believe I see it in yours now. And this makes me think that once, perhaps, that-" She grew more certain as her thoughts grew more distant, recalling a blonde man, cutting his palm with a small dagger one day in a desert tent. "Yes, I saw it once, in someone's eyes."

"And you?"

"But I was not able to look at another in that same way, not then, neither before, nor since. I do not think this sort of love is...I do not think it is something that will find me in this life. As for your lordly husband's perfection," Salima, as she could do, buried the serious note of their conversation, "I will not disturb it for your sake, but you cannot blame me if I absent myself from this close room, for the smell, the smell grows exponentially."

"Then I hope, good princess," Marian said, calling after the swiftly departing sultana, "it shall cling on to me until you will no longer be able to tell us two apart." She raised her voice to be heard as the door was closing, "for we are inseparable now!"

She could not see, at this final pronouncement, the slight pull of melancholy at the corner of her friend and nursemaid's eyes.

**TBC**


	23. Sunny Days and the Clouds to Come

**SCENE:**Robin barely stirred until that evening when the nuns sang their Vespers, the notes of which echoed through the abbey, climbing, presumably, heavenward. The sound of it was joyful, somewhat fragile, and fully angelic, so that when he did wake, his mind could not quite reconcile where he was.

He was in a bed, which was-unusual. He was hearing music, which was-rare. His eyelids fluttered as he rubbed a grubby backhand across them to clear them of sleep. He was infinitely thirsty. Surely one did not thirst in Heaven?

Marian could hold it in no longer at seeing him move, she spoke from her place next to him. "It is lifted, you know," spoke Marian, daughter of Sir Edward, lord of Knighton, once Sheriff of Nottingham. Her tone was that of a tutor. "The vow. Of silence. It is lifted every night for Vespers. They may sing unto the Lord, they may pray in full voice. Until they are finished, and then the silence must fall again. Like a thick, velvet tapestry."

It was, in its way, the most mundane thing to say to the man you had married just before your death six months ago, the man whom you had neither seen nor communicated with in the interim. The man whom you loved. Whom you wished to never leave the place he currently occupied beside you, filthy from his travel, still in his boots, and from his face still not quite certain of where he was.

"You have slept a night and a day, my love," she told him, adding further irrelevant facts to his becoming-less-clouded mind.

He simply looked at her, watching her mouth move, the mechanics of his inner ears working perfectly, but his mind hearing her not at all. Only the unaccompanied voices of the chanting nuns in the chapel, unchained from their daily vow, met his ears. He, himself, could not speak, and could only stop his lips from their trembling by placing them, at first gently, and then more intensely, to hers. It seemed to him the only salutation he could offer her; so long out of his sight, so long a necessary stranger to him. But they could not kiss for long. _Her_ lips simply would not agree to participate.

"I cannot stop smiling," she apologized, and laughed, when he had caught himself on her teeth a time too many.

"Well, then," he agreed amiably, "then we shall smile for a time." And he sat up.

Marian moved to follow suit, unwilling to be too far distant from him yet, though they both still occupied the small space in the narrow bed. He did not comment on the worrying amount of effort it seemed to take for her to raise herself to a sitting position.

"Tell me everything," she said, with more energy in her speech than she had been able to collect for her body's movement. "I must know it all. You are well, the gang is well? They are here? The Sheriff is caught and punished? Tell me!" She ran on, not waiting for his report. "I have no news of anything, save that Richard still reigns. We hear nothing here, only the sound of daily Vespers, and are locked away from the larger world. Speak! So that I may only hear your voice. Oh Robin, speak on _anything_."

Her eagerness took him by surprise, and had he been in another frame of mind he would have laughed. "Are you not angry with me then, for abandoning you, for letting the King send you here? For parting with you after so briefly having been named your husband?" It was hardly a question he could have found the courage to ask had he not had the prior night's rest to begin the healing of his mind.

She sighed at the question, but with a smile. It would seem Salima had shared some of his reservations about sending her away that day in the Holy Land, for his troubled thoughts regarding this clearly were not unknown to her. "I could not for all the world," she assured him, her hands searching for his, "be angry with my husband on a day such as today. This day, for it is still our wedding day I believe, though it has lasted these many months, this day is a day for joy and celebration." But again she could not stop there. "Now speak to me of everything."

And so he knew that it was her intellect first he must satisfy, and that his lips, his oppositional desire to clear his own mind entirely of thought now that he was in her company, would have to wait.

* * *

And so in episodes six and seven, Robin is reunited with Marian. Marian is well and radiant, and his fears of her anger at being sent away to heal are unfounded. Entirely.

**SCENE:** Sometime after, but still early in the same night, Salima returns to the room (it is possible she had gone to attend Vespers in person), at which point she is formally introduced to Robin, who to this point has not known her given name. Who, in fact, has had no knowledge of her unveiled face until she found him at his campsite pitched in the surrounding woods.

As Salima putters around the room preparing for the night to come, and having brought bread and cheese for a cold supper for the two self-proclaimed newlyweds, she manages to kill enough time for Marian to fall to sleep (she has resisted rest all day, due to Robin's presence). Seizing her chance, Salima beckons Robin into the outer hall to speak with him privately.

Taking a moment to extricate himself from Marian's embrace, her head in his lap, he follows Salima out the door, unable to deny himself a wistful look back before the room's door was pulled closed.

Robin knows nothing of Salima's social standing, but has noted the regal way she carries herself, and therefore addresses her accordingly, "Lady, I would wish to thank you-"

Salima ignored the start of his speech of gratitude, and cut to the marrow of the matter. "It has been brought to my attention that Mother Superior feels it would be best if you took the Lady Marian and yourself some distance away from the cloister proper. It would seem you have been causing quite a...distraction, I believe it was called, with your presence here. And though no one doubts the lady to be your bride, as the King witnessed the union, it is best, the Reverend Mother believes, for a husband and wife to enjoy the company of one another somewhere beyond her roof." Though few could have told it from her expression, humor over the urgent need to satisfy propriety here, to a woman such as Salima (a notorious, though unwilling, courtesan), did not go unnoticed.

"And you, are you also not proving a distraction?" inquired Robin, remembering the eyes at many doors upon their entrance and travel through the convent's corridors. He studied the face of Salima as she gave her answer, no longer could he see the scorpions her eyes had become in the dreams he had confessed to Allan. She was no Medusa, after all, this woman of Richard's from Palestine. Surprisingly, her looks were quite the opposite. Even were she not an exotic, she would still attract stares.

"I am something other to them," she told him, in answer to his question, "Someone they would like, they believe, to convert, though they have never asked my own religious feelings on that matter or any other. The skin, you see, tells all. But I have the King's direct proviso, and am installed here by his explicit will. And though I prick at their desire for acolytes, I do not offend their modesty. There is still time for me to rest in their hospitality yet. I shall remain, for now."

It struck him with some surprise that he understood her well enough, though their acquaintance had been, at best, brief, that he could observe, "You are happy here," noting a lack of sharp edges in her eyes that he had seen that day when they first parted over Marian. Edges that seemed to denote pain, or something similar.

Never demurring (it was not her way), she answered him head-on. "I am not unhappy here. And that is a first for me. In witnessing the peace of others, I have found something of it for myself. But no, I would not take their Holy Orders, even if they would accept my skin. I am only resting, before what comes next."

He did not ask her what that might be.

She spoke on, "There is a small cottage within the protection of the abbey's outer wall, but still away from the main castle. It had been a groundskeeper's lodging, held by an old grandfather, too old and half-infirm to worry the Mother Superior concerning her young girls. It has been made ready for your use."

He now knew where she had likely spent the last day or so.

"The weather is warming, and you will be comfortable there, I believe. But as for the journey there, I must tell you, your lady will insist on walking the distance herself."

That did not seem unreasonable to him.

"But you must know," she counseled, "Lady Marian has walked no distance greater than the length of the room behind us since our arrival. If she walked even the space from this room to the castle courtyard on her own power it would take her days to recover." She paused in her line of thought, and held his gaze. "You would not have all of her for that time."

Robin returned her gaze, attempting to search her out. "She lives. What more of Marian could I possibly wish?"

She gave him only a look in reply, steady and knowing.

He shook his head as he grasped her meaning. "Whew, but you are cool." He did not bother to protest as he could have, that he was no brute, and quite able to cage his baser urges. Her expression showed him clearly she would not have believed it. Not of him, nor any other man.

He did not relish the idea of telling Marian she could not travel the distance on her own two legs. "So you would have me begin this with a fight?"

"I would have you begin this by doing all for her. She will need rest, but also rehabilitation, exercise and a gradual return to activity." Salima would not have trusted this to just any man. It was only Richard's high estimation of Sir Robin, and Marian's faith in him that let her have even the fragile strand of hope about him she had now: that he would be unselfish, attentive, gentle, and any number of things she entirely doubted as to be in any man's nature.

Tears pricked at Robin's eyes, the show of emotion angering him. He stamped his foot. "Because even in _this_ moment you remind me that every action is in preparation for yet another separation."

They shared a weary look of two warriors who know, though it will oft go unsaid, that they fight only today's battle, with a greater war ahead of them, and yet tomorrow another battle, and so on, ad infinitum.

"I have packed a yellow scarf," she detailed. "There is a tree growing close, but not too close, to the cottage. I walk out twice daily, and the scarf can be easily seen over a great distance. If you have need of me, tie it to the northern branch. I will come to you. If not, I will leave you, as will everyone here, to your solitude. If you find the same yellow scarf, for I have kept a piece for myself, on the tree, you will know that in two days' time I will come to you at noon, for it is then that Lady Marian and I must move on from this sanctuary, as the King himself has arranged."

Robin wondered for a moment if she spoke of him as 'the King' to highlight his authority in the matter, or if she were not happy with the familiarity of Coeur-de-Lion's given name. _Well, yellow,_ he thought, _for happiness. Yellow for bile, and melancholy. No,_ he refused that connection, telling himself; _yellow. Yellow for sunshine._

Sunny days. He would not think on the clouds to come.

* * *

**SCENE:** It is the next morning. Robin has had two nights plus of restful sleep. The only fly in the ointment of his day is the quandary of how to convince Marian to allow herself to be helped to their new lodgings beyond the abbey's main edifice, but within its impregnable walls.

For-the-moment farewells are said to Salima. And Marian (who still has not mentioned to Robin that she rarely is out of her bed) makes an unconvincing effort to walk to the door of the room and out into the passageway beyond.

As it took him to arrive here, it will also take them some time to navigate the intricate corridor system to find themselves within the convent's grounds. Salima will go before them, leading the way.

At the threshold of the room that had become her whole world, the sweat of effort and expended strength is visible on Marian's brow.

"Come, my love," Robin spoke to her as a bridegroom, and gathered her up in his arms, like the bride she was. He put any thought of argument or willfulness to prove she could do it on her own out of her mind. And in this action he had found a way to make the moment one of bridal joy, rather than invalid need.

They walked (or, as Much would say, rather _he_ walked-and _she_ was carried) down hall after hall, gracefully up steps and down stairways, Salima always guiding them silently before, like a herald, or a bridesmaid.

He had carried this woman in his arms before; once to her sickbed, once to her death. Both times, it had been a burden, one he could hardly seem to lift, so great the emotional weight, the fear and sickly panic of it. Not so now.

.

It was not long into their labyrinthine trek before the sound of doors opening could again be heard, but the noise was not subtle. Doors swung open wide, and sisters and postulants (first ten, then twenty, then one hundred and so on) came to stand as though at attention, each outside their individual chambers, performing a sort of vigil, their faces showing more than simple curiosity, reflecting instead to some degree the joy and happiness on the face of the couple that passed by, and a grace with which they saluted the trio.

And though not a flower was picked for it, neither tower bell tolled nor horn trumpeted, it proved still and all very much the triumphal bridal recessional.

And when the distant day came that the abbey's vow was permanently lifted, the story of _that_ day, of the knight in forest green who came to claim his lady love, was among the first told from the time of the Holy blessed silence.

In fact, it is said to be still told today.

**TBC**


	24. Support Your Local Sheriff

**SCENE:** The Sheriff awaits his alfresco luncheon guest. A peculiar carriage has arrived, able to more or less drive directly up to the table, etc. the Sheriff has had set out.

It quickly becomes apparent the irregular setting is in order to accommodate Knighton's new lord, Sir Clem, having to be moved about as little as possible. His carriage stops and he is brought to table, less than ten feet away, in a sedan chair carried by his hulking varlet Wad and a generic Nottingham servant (who is more than a little cowed by his portion of the heavy load).

Lunch ensues.

The tenor of the conversation has not exactly been brisk. Plotting is not best done in open air and sunshine (hence the Sheriff building that dark space for the Black Knights in Season Two), for black habiliments, as the Sheriff would promptly tell you, get _hot_ in the sun.

**Sheriff:** [in mid-conversation] I think it best if we are candid on the circumstances of your father's somewhat regrettable death.

**Sir Clem:** I have been apprised that he was a prisoner here in your dungeon...

**Gisborne:** [cuts in, hoping to soften the moment] Well, I would not exactly...

**Sir Clem:** [continues] Is that not a far distance to fall, Sir Guy? From Sheriff to inmate? And then, upon one's escape to be found dead, stabbed in the street like any common vagrant? Doubtless he had become caught up in some local insurrection. Perhaps his mind had feebled?

**Sheriff:** [pulls a long face for effect] Truly piteous, Sir Clem [he is sure to always use the honorific address], as his trial had been set but two days after. Which undoubtedly would have vindicated him.

**Sir Clem:** [convincingly non-committal] It matters little to me, the circumstances or the outcome. Although I suppose it might smudge the family name somewhat. Does that seem cold to you, Sir Guy? A man, after all, learns to rely on oneself in life, n'est-ce pas? Casts off the bonds of childhood and home until he is born again of himself, relying on no one? [a dark tone descends into his voice] At least those men to which such a path is still an option.

**Gisborne:** [again trying to steer the conversation to more pleasant things, feeling Clem's tone too bleak] Your sister was greatly loved by the people.

**Sheriff:** [shooting visual daggers at Gisborne over more talk of the people] Oh yes, _gentle_ Lady Marian. Greatly loved. People, people, people.

**Sir Clem:** [starkly unemotional] She was little more than whelped when I left for Richard's army. Any memory I have of her is of foul-smelling napkins and temper tantrums. You will forgive me if I find grieving such an unknown sister difficult, no matter how fresh her loss.

**Sheriff:** Naturally. Worry not, Gisborne has more than made up for our lack in the matter.

_The Sheriff speaks out-of-turn to Wad, expecting him to fill his empty cup._

**Sir Clem:** My lord sheriff, I must ask you not to address my man. He is loyal only to me, and speaks a rare tongue known as Basque. [dry laughter, we first see his smile. It is rueful.] Forgive me. That is a mis-nomer, as Wad speaks no tongue at all.

**Gisborne:** [curious, but abrupt, something about Clem puts him off and chills him] And why is that? At your command?

**Sir Clem:** [bored by the tale] His tongue was severed some years ago, before I bound him to my service. Other parts of him were also...removed. I was told it was in repayment for some rebellion or mutiny he had joined. It would seem the punishment cured the ill, as I have had never yet a moment's trouble of him.

**Sheriff: ** [gives Wad an appraising look] May I?

_Clem signals to Wad to open his mouth for the Sheriff to inspect. The servant is indeed tongueless._

**Sheriff:** Gentle giant, then, is he? [his eyes linger on the other part of Wad he believes was castrated]

_Sir Clem ignores the leading comment, and does not offer to display that bit of Wad's anatomy, even though during this meeting Wad is treated on par with livestock._

**Gisborne:** [trying clumsily to put things back on-topic] So you have met the King?

**Sir Clem:** [holding nothing back, harrumphs] As far as I am concerned, John is rightful King of England, as his father would have had him so.

**Sheriff:** [doing a reasonable approximation of shocked, wishing to see how far Clem will go] But Sir Clem, to speak such is sedition!

**Sir Clem:** [in response, tempering his tone, if not his message] Richard cares naught for England, no more than he cares for the wooden chests which hold his treasury. Taxes and income are all the butcher cares for. He has no desire to rule, to govern. He dreams only of conquest. And we Englishmen cannot interest him even in that, for we are his already, and therefore offer no challenge to surmount. Richard's England is but a farm to tax for monies, whose chief crop is young men for Salah Ad-din Yusef Ibn Ayyub's killing fields. Our young men, our future, sent to die or [bitterly] be maimed.

**Gisborne:** Do you not fear speaking so openly on sentiments that could lead to your hanging?

[Sheriff looks on wolfishly]

**Sir Clem:** My only response to such a question, Sir Guy, would be to ask two questions. The first: What has a man like myself to lose that has not been taken already? The second: Why, if these remarks are viewed as treasonous, and unwelcome by his lord the high sheriff and his knighted master-at-arms do I feel in so little peril of arrest?

_He does not smile. The Sheriff and Gisborne do not smile. All three sit in a triangluar locked gaze, hoping to correctly size the other side up, somewhat of a standoff to see who will make the next move._

The Sheriff, who has been leaning forward in his seat in interest thus far, takes a deep breath in through his nose and scoots back in his chair, breaking the moment. Again making eye contact with Clem, he says (not moving to look at Guy),

**Sheriff:** Gisborne, find a man among the castle staff to accompany Sir Clem to Knighton and remain quartered there to assist his man with some of the more _physical_ chores [meaning the sedan chair].

_Clem thanks the Sheriff, in the appropriate but bored way of a person at Court, but it is clear to all the interview is over, and that the servant to be sent will act as a spy. Once Clem's carriage has departed..._

**Gisborne:** [as always the consigliere, hoping to offer wisdom] My lord, were that man not so utterly made ineffective by the palsy in his legs, I should say he was a dangerous man.

**Sheriff:** [deep in his own thoughts] Pity that man is doomed to his arse the rest of his life, Gisborne. I could have made something of him.

**TBC**


	25. The Beast of Desire

_This chapter/section #25, "The Beast of Desire", I am going to self-rate T+.  
It is/will be the ONLY section of the complete story to differ from the listed "T" rating.  
Please see Author's Profile for all other notes and disclaimers._

* * *

**SCENE:** Aquitaine, France, fortified abbey stronghold of King Richard. Gardener's cottage, well-stocked with foods, such as meats and supplies of flour for bread, and even a lone, tethered nanny goat for milking.

Not far from the entrance is its own well for fresh water.

It is later in Robin and Marian's first day there. Some of their initial giddiness has worn off and settled into a peaceful happiness, a contentment with their present circumstances.

This is a place of peace and delight. The sun shines, and bird song can be heard. Flowering plants abound.

For invalid Marian, who has spent months indoors, it is as though Robin has brought the Spring with him (though it is already summer), and has brought her senses into vibrant, joyous life. It is the kind of place within which it is impossible to imagine dissatisfaction of any kind existing.

Especially as Marian knows nothing of the yellow scarf and its portentous omen signaling further separation.

Robin is in the process of getting settled and familiar with where they now are in order that he might return quickly to his forest camp, just beyond the castle walls, to retrieve what little of his kit he has left there.

- - -

"Marian, will you not rest?" he asked, crossing the main room of the cottage to close a set of shutters and dim the sunny daylight for a time.

"Please, do not!" she begged, wishing she had an enchanted chalice in which to catch the bright rays, a chalice that would allow her to drink from it, ingesting its beauty, its welcome warmth and light. Obediently (a strange modifier for Marian) she added, "yes, I will rest. But _with_ the sun, please."

"Very well," Robin acquiesced (a stranger verb for Robin), moving to her side as she sat on the edge of the double-sized country bed.

It appeared that for Marian's convenience the bed had been dragged closer to the cottage's central fire pit. Leastways the marks left on the packed dirt floor would so indicate.

He took his hand and cupped her cheek and chin and behind her ear and kissed her, as though a "goodnight". It was a gentle, loving, but undemanding kiss that lasted only a short time and came to an almost chaste end.

As he and his lips pulled away, she leaned her forehead to his sternum, his chin now nearly touching the back crown of her dark hair.

"Robin," she said, leaning her forehead further into him.

And he heard the question, heard the request in her tone, the entreaty, and he cursed the woman Salima for ever putting any doubt in his mind as to what his response-his body's response-might be.

But only water ran through his veins. And that, if not ice, then was surely a tepid, un-distracting lukewarm water. He must head to his camp, and Marian must to bed, to rest. _Alone_.

"Marian, no. I would not cause you pain," he offered her by way of explanation.

"But there is already pain," she told him. "The sore, swollenness of a longing," she continued, "that wants so badly to be fulfilled. How I ache!" she exclaimed. "I did not know it could be so. Surely, Robin, surely I shall burst!" She pulled away to look up at him then, her eyes shining with her plea.

"I would not have you further hurt." _The King's own destrier_, but she was beautiful, begging him to deflower her. Surely the most beautiful woman he had ever turned down, this, his still-virgin wife of these many months.

"Lay down with me, then-just lay. I will try to sleep for you. Only hold me," she requested, "my heart-"

He could see the flush on her cheek, the pulse in her neck.

He knew well the condition, the throb that could not be calmed, the overriding thoughts that could not be pushed aside. The desire, the carnal want when it first fully took one into its thrall. He knew (he was no stranger to this distraction of desire), and so he pitied the woman he loved, and lay down next to her on the bed's fresh linen.

Marian grabbed his hand to wrap it around her, and it settled just above her breast over her heart, indeed galloping wildly, not so differently from his steadily quickening own. The close scent of her, the tease of her hair against his face, the pound of her heart and smooth promise of the rise of her breast below the base of his palm dangerously threatened the temperature of that water running through his veins.

Involuntarily his knees bent, bending her into an unexpected spooning. He had not meant to do that, nor had he meant to have his warm, now choppy breath blow across her ear. Too late.

"Robin," again, an entreaty. "Is there-" she almost did not finish. It was a risky question. "Is there nothing that can help? _Nothing_ of which you know? I do not wish to be so...dissembled, so undone in your presence. I fear I shall never sleep again."

He considered the request, his hand still monitoring her rapid heart.

He considered his possible answer.

"Perhaps there is some anodyne," he said, his hand flexing with the thought of what he offered her. There again was the breast, plumply refusing to deny its existence, teasing him to lower his palm, only adjust incrementally to find its target center. The bull's-eye which, when aim was true, proved its own reward. "But you must sleep, then." He felt sweat rising on the back of his neck, and his mind forcefully ordered his legs to straighten out of the spooning.

He meant to give her heart a brotherly pat, but the gallop beginning the deep pounding of his own turned it into something more of a caress.

Marian shifted as if to rise and undress.

"No!" he said, responding with more vehemence in his tone that he wished.

"We both remain clothed." He did not know why he used the plural pronoun, since it had not been suggested that he disrobe.

The hand he had removed from over her heart he used to gather her shift and kirtle at her hip, delicately, as if they were fragile as spider's web, willing himself to look away from, to look beyond the lay of her leg, the rounded curve of her half-revealed buttock.

He forcibly thought of icy mountain springs, and winter in Locksley as his hand found the inner curving of her hip and traced its way to her rounded, full self, the warm, tense source of her, his wrist and sherte-sleeve bindings tickling against her never-touched skin.

He felt her back arch with his hand's arrival, her shoulders bending back, her head tilting almost into his nose, but she made no sound.

His finger's delicate tracings, though, quickly caused her to gasp, and her left arm came down to his hand.

"Shall I stop?" he asked, thinking it a dismissal.

"No," she spoke sluggishly. "Only I need something to hold on to."

He brought his right hand around behind her back, pulling her tighter into him, clothing and bunched sheets preventing her from fully feeling the effect the moment was having on him. "Hang on to me, then," he directed her, and her left arm came over her shoulder and its hand settled on the back of his neck.

Her body was sprung with tension, hardly dissimilar to that of his re-curved bow. "Do not snap, my precious darling wife," he soothed silently, "I will un-string you yet."

He closed his eyes as he lay here in the very belly of temptation, knowing that it was too soon to advance any further, that she must first rest and grow stronger, that he must keep his wits about him until then. That he must discipline himself.

- - -

He held her tightly and assured her softly so that she might center herself in the moment, but also so that he might sternly re-discipline his corporeal self so that he might still make that trip to the camp in the woods. So that he might still prove he was strong enough to overcome the beast of desire inside every man, for though he might have taken the tension from Marian so that she might rest in sleep, he had not banished it. Rather, he had transferred it to himself.

* * *

**SCENE:** Much's POV

Robin had been gone with _that_ woman, that Saracen of Richard's who had first sent him home from Crusade too long. Too, too long. There had been no beef roast, no lamb, no memory-filled, tale-spinning reunion supper with the King.

For some days now the castle's doors had not opened, and his only reference for time passing were its rung Vesper bells and nightfall differing the view in this now-contemptible forest glade from that of sunrise.

He had very nearly decided to storm the castle himself. It would not be the first time he had laid siege as an army of one. And he well-remembered (he imagined the Sheriff did, too) the satisfying success of the now-fabled rescue he had perpetuated, freeing Robin from Nottingham's infamous dungeon. _Single-handedly._ Well, perhaps not single-handedly, but surely as captain and leader of the then motley Sherwood crew.

_Ah, Sherwood_. How he missed it now. It was nothing like this poxy French _bois_. He believed he would embrace even Allan himself should he materialize from the underbrush.

A noise from self-same underbrush startled him from his peevish rant, and it took a moment for him to banish the idea that it might be Allan.

It is, instead, Robin, who has left Marian sleeping to return here to retrieve what he left behind of his kit, and it takes some moments before both the audience and Much know him for the real Robin, and not the Idol vision version.

- - -

**Much:** Robin! [spluttering from being caught off-guard] Master. What, where, why? Why come to France? Is it the King? Has he need of us? [Much is hyper-attentive, he believes Robin mentally fragile]

**Robin:** [blowing all potential theories of Much's to bits] Marian is alive. [smiling because he is so pleased to be able to finally share this with someone]

**Much:** Marian. [warily] Alive.

**Robin:** Yes, she is here.

**Much:** [looks around, thinks Robin hallucinates] Right now, here, with us?

**Robin:** [prompted by Much, also looking about] No. Not _with_ us. She is there [gestures], inside the convent.

**Much:** [slowly, as though he is doing a long line of sums] Marian is alive, and cloistered in a convent.

**Robin:** Yes.

**Much:** In France.

**Robin:** Yes!

**Much:** But if Marian is alive, then she is still your wife. How can she then marry God and join a convent? Is that not [struggling for the word]...bigamy? [snorts] Don't think He would look very highly on that.

**Robin:** [slightly exasperated, but still happily] Marian has not _joined_ with a Holy Order. She has only been sent here to heal in secrecy!

**Much:** [a snit beginning, ignoring the good news of Marian] You lied to me.

**Robin:** I never.

**Much:** You told me Marian died. That is, you let me believe she died. [Losing steam] You arranged it so that I saw her die...

[Robin shakes his head slowly 'no', smiling]

**Much:** [defensively] Who else knows? [meaning: who have you told before me?]

**Robin:** The King himself secured my bond of utter secrecy.

**Much:** The King. Richard knows? Richard had her brought here to Aquitaine?

**Robin:** By the lady Salima and two guards.

**Much:** [scoffs] Hmmm. Don't much like her.

**Robin:** Here, here.

[Robin is bemused as Much begins putting it all together]

**Much:** But if Marian is alive _here_, and you were sent home _there_, then you have not seen her for-_months_-

**Robin:** [filling in and finishing for Much] Since Palestine.

**Much:** [continues as though he is the only one speaking] and have had no word of her

**Robin:** Until the pigeon.

**Much:** You must have been worried out of your

**Robin:** mind. Haunted, wild with grief, tumbling my greatest friend in God's whole world into the fire whilst in the grip of a nightmare.

**Much:** [too into the moment to even sidetrack and ask how Robin found out about the vest singeing incident][almost reverently] and you could tell no one.

**Robin:** As neither shall you. On the King's words.

**Much:** [his obedience to any edict of Richard's goes without saying] And she is here, and well?

**Robin:** Quite well. [decreases vehemence] Getting well. [again, backing further off his tone] Mending.

**Much:** [slaps Robin's back, now able to fully participate in his joy] Glorious! Stupendous! And so we shall [begins to say "take her home with us"]

**Robin:** [cuts him off] [curiously] Much, why are you here?

**Much:** Me? Well, I followed you. [his nervous energy sets in, the entire tone of their meeting is altered]

**Robin:** And John and Allan?

**Much:** Back in Sherwood...alone. [penitently] I did not tell them I was going.

[Robin is displeased, but can not hold on too tightly to displeasure in this moment.]

**Robin:** I would rather have six in Sherwood. That being no longer possible at present, I would have four, though I thought for this brief time three would make do. Now I find there are but two. It is not encouraging news.

**Much:** [ready to atone immediately] Shall I return straightaway? Shall I go even now?

**Robin:** [considering] No, you are here. I think shortly I shall have need of you, if my guess is right and the future holds travel in it for Marian and this woman Salima. Some of Richard's guard is billeted in the village just over the next hillock. Go there. I will meet you again here [signals the campsite] in one week's time.

**Much:** [bidding farewell] Until then.

**Robin:** [giving as his goodbye a consolation for being sent away] I hear the women of Aquitaine are uncommonly pretty. And generous to strangers. [begins a 'you hang up, no you hang up!' moment] Find what news you can of the war and the King. Be safe.

**Much:** [his way of saying 'I love you'] Lady Marian. Alive. It is good to have such news.

**Robin:** It is good, Much, to have such a wife.

**Much:** Lady Huntingdon. [smiles, always his mind set toward their eventual re-instatement]

**Robin:** Close personal friend of the lord of Bonchurch. [winks]

- - -

And for a moment the twinkle in his eye is of such power that we _almost_, but not _quite_ mistake him as Idol Robin (which of course on a good day he does often come close to being).

* * *

**SCENE:** Some days later. Marian has eaten well, slept well, and her level of activity has increased. For more than an hour she is able to be up and out of bed. She has even managed to give Robin a lesson in bread baking, though she is little better at it than he.

He is greatly encouraged by her progress, and has happily set about the few small chores necessary to life at the cottage, such as milking the nanny.

Marian is supposed to be resting, but when he returns with the filled milk pail, he finds her standing by the table, a basin of water from the rain barrel in front of her, her kirtle gone and her shift rolled down to her waist, washing herself.

"Marian, you-" he began, meaning to finish, meaning to say something about her needing to rest.

And the funny thing was, it wasn't even her bared breasts that first drew his eye, it was her left shoulder, the curving slope as it met her upper arm beyond her collarbone. The rounded camber (that shape so easily cupped by a tender palm) echoed by that of her unmarred breasts. She was-"You are-" he said, again unable to finish.

She looked at him, barely out of the open doorway, milk pail still in hand, undone by the sight of her. And very deliberately she picked up the cloth she had been using, wrung it out of water against that same tantalizing bareness of her collarbone's joining, and continued with her wash.

Over shoulder and under and between breasts the cloth swirled in her hands, unhurried.

He had a moment-just a moment-of clear thought to wonder: did her breasts prick so every time she washed? Or were they swollen to bright points now just for him?

The hand and the cloth stopped their work.

"I do not think your trousers will let you deny me this time," she said playfully, and he did not have to follow her glance to know he strained greatly against their very seams.

"Marian," he said, his voice coarse with his attempt to master it in that moment.

She took a step out from behind the table. Her rolled-down shift still shrouded her lower half from him.

He meant to set the pail down beside him. Instead it dropped from his hand. Milk poured on the floor at his feet, the evening's work, wasted. He stepped over it without noticing, closer to her. "Once we open this door," he tried to explain, "there is no closing it, no going back. I will not exaggerate my ability for restraint in this situation. It will be all or nothing."

"All," she declared quietly.

"And," he cautioned her, "there is often a roughness," his voice caught on the dryness of his throat, "for those not yet...initiated."

He did not for a moment believe her so sheltered (for in their earthy world that would be a miracle beyond accomplishing) as to not know this, but he felt he must say anyway. Marian had had no proper mother to prepare her for such, no loyal lady's maid, grandmotherly and wise, to explain the harshness that could be a wedding night.

He did not wish to be the cause of Marian hurt, Marian discomfited. Marian disappointed. But on the other side, the other side of any temporary discomfiture? There, he wished very much to be. There, his desire was more than ready to take them both.

"I grant you, my liege, the right of _prima nocta_," she teased him, though he saw that she trembled, "as you are lord of all Locksley, and I its most-recent bride." She did a sort of low half-bow, her eyes momentarily to the floor.

"Nay," he replied, close enough now to lift her chin so he could meet her eyes. "I'll have you as my lady. I take you, Marian, as my wife. I'll naught even play at anything else."

He was rarely so fully serious.

"And it's as my husband I'll take you," she covenanted with him, her voice unsteady, barely above a whisper.

His hand followed her chin to her neck. Like fresh water seeking the sea, so his hand found her bared breast, the pad of his thumb passed over her nipple, the palm of his hand felt for its heft.

She let him.

"You are soft," he confessed to her, a tone of quiet wonder in his voice, "in all of the right places." His other hand slid along the top lip of the folded down shift until it reached around her to the upper slant of her bum.

It was the sort of moment, the sort of comment which between them would usually spark a joke or witticism, a cutting rebuff-always the necessity of them keeping one another in check, never letting things become too genuine, too risky. Certainly never letting hands wander unchecked as they were now.

But as he kissed her, her bared skin smooth against the coarser weave of his sherte, their lips met as their bodies soon would, without strictures, without walls, the expression of their love now without boundaries or limitations.

- - -

**SCENE:** continued, now in Marian's point-of-view

It was pointless, she thought, to address the notion of her virginity, her "first-time-ness". Robin, as well as any of the nobility, knew that to maintain any value as a marriageable female she could not have risked sexual activity any more than she could have pre-spent her own dowry.

Too much depended on the visible signs of her deflowering. The sheets to be produced the day after, the tell-tale stains, the proofs to convince a husband, a father, even, that a girl was still a maid, enjoyed by no other.

It mattered not whether she herself bought into these expectations of society, they existed, and she occupied a space within the system that valued them.

But here, as life had worked out, here in this secluded cottage, a continent away from anyone who knew her, married to Robin, it truly mattered not at all.

Her heart told her that Robin would care as little about any virginal proofs as she did. And just as she did not regret any of the decisions she had had to make (or endure) to keep her maidenhead in tact, she certainly did not regret sharing a moment, an event such as this with only this man, now and forever.

- - -

She had helped him take his sherte, unlace it and pull it off his shoulders and over his head. More expert than she, he had noticeably loosened the back-lacings of his trousers, though his slender hips kept them yet on.

She told herself to stop trembling like a schoolgirl as he brought his hands to lift her rolled-down shift off her waist, over her head, and onto the table, leaving her fully nude in the late afternoon light, bared in front of him.

In the moment before his trousers fell to the floor so that he might join her in a state of complete undress, she saw it in his eyes. No doubt he saw it in hers: fear.

Not of what was to come, but of what his actions, his undressing of her had revealed: the gash in her abdomen, healed now, larger and more scarred than the smaller one on her right side that it had joined. She had no looking glass to see it as he might. Distracted with Robin's nearness since his first arrival at the abbey she had all but forgotten it was there.

As always, she struggled to swallow her fear of it, to quieten his, the sight of it to him so new. But then, he was not without scars of his own. And though they were many, as his bared body now revealed to her, he wore its twin-given by the same man.

Neither Marian nor Robin mentioned the man who has so marked them, the man who had been the agent of their separation time and again. In this cottage they found there was no room for a third person. There was only this hallowed dance of connubial bliss, this act of two becoming one, this initiation into coital pleasure.

- - -

Because first he, then she, fluctuated between feeling like they had infinite time, and feeling as though this were something they must desperately accomplish, the rhythm of their play and lovemaking shifted wildly from one moment to the next until, on this day, urgency won out over finesse.

- - -

And as her sight tinged with black about the edges, the exquisitely unexpected happened: she no longer had to think. For a moment, for an eternity within that moment, Marian's body took over for her mind, and something deep and to her unknown inside her hips took over a cadence, until her whole being seemed to seize, crescendoing into a shiver. For she had known, though she had forgotten to mention (though anyone in Nottinghamshire could have pointed out); as she liked to ride, and Robin to shoot, surely all they needed to achieve perfection was naught but a little time alone and a little practice.

And now, here in France, in the rosy safety of Richard's abbey fortress, surely they had been granted both.

**TBC**


	26. Meanwhile Back at the Ranch

Marian and Robin have been installed in the gardener's cottage as Salima instructed. Salima goes about life (such as it is) at the abbey. Found-out 'stowaway' Much finds his way, at Robin's request, to the nearby village where Richard's soldiers are billeted.

For the happy couple in the gardener's cottage, bliss briefly (perhaps a week or two-like honeymoon) ensues.

- - -

The Sherwood gang's (if you can call two a gang) attempts to carry on without Robin or the discovered-missing Much have proven disastrous. John has been caught by the returned Sir Clem, and being found out by the Sheriff or Gisborne is surely only a matter of time as he labors to fulfill an enforced sentence of hard labor to Knighton and its surroundings, each task meted out at the caprice of Clem.

Allan has found himself desperate, with little or nothing to work with to affect a rescue, and so has dispatched (urging Robin's return immediately) the pigeon left behind to its home (though he knows not where in the world that may be), which we now know to be in neighboring France. Yet, because he can neither read nor write, nor trust anyone to do so for him, the message he had to settle on was a primitive stick drawing of a bearded John and his staff, with exaggerated chains about his ankles and a simplistic scribble of the seal of Knighton as means of communicating where he was being held.

Far from a praying man, Allan still takes the bird to a nearby chapel to release it, hoping God might sight it on its way and hurry it (and Robin, and Much) along. After this, he risks everything to see John one last time, to be sure the big man does not think he has been forgotten or given up on.

- - -

**SCENE:** "I'm for Scarborough," Allan whispers through chink cracks of a poorly mudded barn wall, inside which John must spend his nights still in heavy irons and under guard. "I have sent for Robin," he assured John.

"How long?" Little John whispered in return, words minced as any too loud or too long might betray them.

"Oh, more than a sennight ago," Allan lied in his easy, believable way, having only released the bird that afternoon. "He should show up any day now, big man." The barn dust was tempting him to sneeze. "Meanwhile, I'm to Scarborough to find a friend."

"Luke?" asked John, his beard and his hair a mass of straw and hay seed, courtesy of his time in this captivity.

"Gotta go with what you've got, right?" Allan asked, to assure himself as much as Little John. "I'll be back as soon as I can, so tell Robin where I've gone when he gets here." _Nice touch_, he thought to himself, still trying to add layers of reassurance to the earlier lie.

John bids him farewell and safe return by way of a grunted "Go. Now," and Allan departs with all haste for Scarborough, Auntie Annie, and the only other person in England he thinks he might be able to sway to the cause of Little John's desperately needed rescue.

- - -

On his way he pays a moment's visit to a small not-quite-cottage near the kitchens of Knighton's newly-rebuilt main house, the hovel far enough away to have survived Sir Guy's torching of the original hall.

Allan did not bother to knock on the door for permission to enter. Stealth and disguise were all now.

It was evening, and a lone woman sat with her back to the door, attempting to darn linen from the hall by the fire's light. Her hands were worn from years of work, but still supple enough to do her bidding.

"Don't turn around," Allan warned her, making his presence known, though he had no weapon to threaten her with should she resist. "I ain't been here, you don't know me, you ain't never heard my voice."

She did not move. Her needle hand froze in place.

"Are you Gwyn, Knighton's chatelaine?"

Her voice was soft when she responded, oddly as though she did not wish to make a fuss of his 'visit' anymore than he did. "I am no more than an under-housekeeper's assistant now." She continued to face the fire, which relieved him. "Knighton has not functioned as a great Hall for many years gone, not since Sir Edward and his family lived." It was possible her voice shook slightly on the name of Edward, and at the thought of his family. "There is no need for the position of chatelaine."

Allan felt it curious that she did not mention that with the return of Clem, some of the family yet lived. Well, perhaps any love lost between her and Knighton's new lord was to his advantage. "If you knew him, Edward, you knew his daughter, yeah?"

"I arrived at Knighton many years ago..."

This Gwyn was queerly conversational as she glanced at the fire, as though his threat to her was just a charade (which, of course, it was), and they were in fact visiting cordially with one another, reminiscing.

"...As part of Lady Knighton's bride price. I was present at the birthing of each of her children. Including the wee ones who did not live, and the final babe that took her life...and lost his." She sighed. "'Twas I who buried the bed sheets and the bag of waters at Lady Marian's birth." She sighed again, remembering the day. "She had the most beautiful black curls on any babe I'd ever seen, from the moment her mother pushed her out into the world."

A man on a mission, Allan had to interrupt the woman's ever-lengthening reverie. "Well, that big giant of a man locked up serving his time here was at one time a _particular_ help to her, may she rest in peace, and if you know what's good for you, and don't want to have me or my kind around again," he was still pretending he meant to menace her, "you'll see to it he gets well fed-at least as well as the house servants-and you'll wrap and salve his cuts and blisters when they bleed to keep them from festering, right?"

"Yes," she said, a wistfulness in her voice, not at all the trembling tone of a woman whose home had been invaded and she herself imperiled.

Perhaps he really was no good at playing enforcer. Perhaps he had picked the wrong person to terrorize. But, something told him, the right person to help. "And you won't do this for me," he continued, "and you won't do this for your returned master, you'll do it for her, that beautiful black-curled babe."

"And I will tell no one." She completed his thought before he had even fully formed it.

"Right." This was proving a bit too easy, yet his gambler's nose told him she was trustworthy. This Gwyn would do as he asked, and discreetly.

"And you will tell your chief," she made a demand of him. "Your Hood...you will tell," her voice dropped to an even quieter pitch, "Robin that he is not alone in his grief of her?" Now she turned, now she looked to the wall behind her whereupon hung the door.

But the outlaw known as Allan-A-Dale, to her unknown, a faceless man-only a voice which she must remember she never had heard-was already gone, and her door one again returned to the latch.

* * *

As the audience knows that Robin has been sent for (by pigeon), this adds a certain tension to their viewing of the Robin/Marian reunited plotline, as always in the back of their minds must rise the question of when the bird will appear in France, and what will be the fate of Little John in the time before Robin might arrive home, or Allan return from Scarborough.

Occasional shots of the bird in flight and in search of its home are interspersed through these episodes, a sort of memento mori (reminder of the coming end of Robin and Marian's currently charmed time together). An ever-nearing return to the 'real world' out of their safe cloister is always circling, even at moments of their deepest happiness.

Conversely, back at Knighton, during his enforced labors, John also sights the occasional bird in flight (though of course he knows they are not the one Allan released), but to him they call to mind that pigeon, symbolizing his future freedom, his hope and his faith that his friends will not fail in rescuing him. 


	27. Trading Spaces

In a bit of lighthearted silliness, we come to a cheeky episode number eight to air just before the four episode run-up to the series finale (episode 13).

Entitled, "Trading Spaces", it takes place entirely in the dreamscape of Much, who is quietly biding his time in that nearby village until he is to rendezvous again with Robin at the convent campsite.

Much "awakes" to find himself...Sheriff of Nottingham.

The trick of the episode is to write the entire script as though you would write any normal Robin Hood script. And then you let your actors do all the work. (And have all the fun.)

In Much's topsy-turvy nightmare, _he_ is the cold-heartedly evil Sheriff, and Robin his master-at-arms Guy of Gisborne (yes, ladies, 'guyliner' and all). Conversely Gisborne is the beloved former Lord of Locksley, the now-outlaw of Sherwood, and our Sheriff his faithful servant, Much. A now-slippery Will Scarlet joins Sheriff Much at Nottingham Castle, having betrayed the forest gang, while Allan remains behind, faithful to the mixed-up mashed-up Sherwood crew.

Our D'Jaq is now stoic and strong "Big John", and our Little John is now "Little D'Jaq", a mystic healer in a Sikh turban. Both remain with the forest outlaws.

While in his nightmare Much runs around committing the usual Sheriff's atrocities (a tongue cut out here, children dangled above crocodiles there), no visible heart beating in his breast, Guy (now Robin) Hood bests him at every turn, his skill with a bow, his love of a good joke, a good plan and a pretty girl eclipsed only by his desire to do good in the world. (In fact, his goodness is such that his hair color has even switched-up for the ep to a chestnut brown, flecked ever so slightly with blonde.)

When the beautiful Lady Marian (Eve of Bonchurch as we know her) stands accused of being the vigilante Nightwatchman, and Much as the Sheriff orders her to be publicly blinded, it is for (Guy)Robin Hood to rescue the woman he loves, and for (Robin)Guy to stop the Sheriff from permanently maiming the woman he covets.

In the final third of the script, Much, our Much, begins to come into his character of the Sheriff, horrified by what he has brought about, desperate to try and stop it and to put things to rights.

By and large, the joy in the episode comes from watching the actors take on different roles [said the author who had seen Xena's "Ten Little Warlords" perhaps a time too many]. And the tag to the 44 minutes shows Much waking, shaking the sleep off, the bizarre dream quickly fading, and going to meet Robin back at the campsite.

**TBC**


	28. That Woman  an undeserving enemy

Salima, on standing orders from the King, finds it is time to invoke the signal of the yellow scarf, alerting the gardener's cottage residents that the time has come for Marian to be moved.

Marian has been "offered" (a nicer term than the more realistic "ordered to") a place at the court of Queen Eleanor, incognita.

As for the trip, Robin predictably refuses a retinue of the King's Guards, declaring he will escort Marian himself. While scouting the route, he rendezvous with Much. Travel plans are revealed, and the duo set out for the Aquitaine Court with Marian and Salima; Marian initially on a litter, but eventually able to ride, near journey's end planning to arrive at Court astride her own horse.

In order to preserve secrecy, Robin and Much must hand Marian and the liveried horses over to Salima (with a thin but plausible story of bandits robbing and kidnapping their escorts) before delivering them all the way to Court. Robin and Much will then follow in secret, concealed, to assure the ladies' safety until they are within the protected walls of the Queen's city.

This spur-of-the-moment arrangement throws an air of anxious uncertainty over the coming leave-taking.

**SCENE:** On the road to the Queen's Court, possibly two days out from their expected arrival. It is not Sherwood, but despite Much's feelings to the contrary there is something quite home-like about the French wood through which the road winds. It is green and shaded from the hot late-summer sun, and Marian and Robin are often astride the same mount, more for the closeness of their ever-dwindling time together than of any necessity.

This arrangement leaves Much with no companion, save Salima and his own horse, Robin and Marian seeming to have more secrets than usual, and eyes only for one another.

Much, unable to logically explain his dislike of Richard's appointed nurse, nonetheless bristles at the idea of her, despairing of trying to engage in conversation one so stoic and stingy in her replies. Perhaps he blames her for Robin's wound festering, or for the fact that it was she with the authority to send him home to heal, and not himself. Perhaps she is too stark a reminder of the less-than glorious memories of the Holy Land.

In the present she represents to him yet another barrier between he and Robin, and now Marian, for Much surely considers the three of them a family. Time and a change of circumstances cannot totally override the deep-seated loyalties put into his mind at age nine when he was bound in service to Robin, to serve him until his own death, or Robin's. And to serve (and chastely dote upon) his master's lady.

This distasteful Salima woman, as far as he can see, only serves to get in the way.

Besides which, what is her station in life? She serves the King but is not in service to him. She has no husband, and it would seem, no father, wandering about the world interposing herself where she is not wanted. Behaving often in ways he does not understand. He could not see how Marian managed to tolerate her.

**SCENE:** Flashback, Crusade. Five years in. The dead of night.

Much rushes into the tent of Sir Stephen DeMoure without giving the accepted, 'halloo the tent' greeting. His torch, and the erratic way he is brandishing it, threatens to set the entirety of his surroundings ablaze. His eyes are not even open when he shouts the greeting that has been pounding in his head since it was given him by the King.

"You must come at once, by order of the King," he shouted, wheezily, as he had run the entire distance. Only then did he open his eyes, as if ending a prayer. His eyes were larger, though, the pupils dilated in fright much more so than any heavenly petitioner's might be usually found to be.

It was his eyes that showed him what the shaky light of his torch could: DeMoure unable to even rouse himself, the smell and stain of wine on his tunic. Though it was well into the nightwatches, the knight had not bothered to undress to sleep, looking as though he had collapsed directly onto his cot, spilled goblet beside him.

Much's quick assessment of his surroundings, his mind racing like wildfire, found him the woman he sought quickly enough. _'Go to DeMoure's tent,' the King had instructed, his own reaction to Much's nervous fright quite sanguine. 'You will find a nurse there that will help. I will come to you in the morning.'_ Much did not question the King's not coming himself. It was not the bailiwick of a sovereign to attend on the ailing. After a day like the bloody one that had just passed, Richard had much to accomplish before dawn, and more injured men on his hands than a whole night's worth of personal visitation could see to.

"The King," Much stressed again, his voice still loud and uneven with shaking. "You must come."

He had not seen, due to the shadows she occupied, that with his initial entrance the woman had begun swiftly and deliberately preparing to follow him, gathering up what tools and necessities she might need.

When she did step into the light, his addled mind noted two things about her immediately. One, she was almost unworldly in her beauty, and two, her demeanor was incongruously imperious for a woman who also wore what was clearly the purpling mark of DeMoure fist's on her elegant cheekbone.

"Your friend," she asked as she followed him capably across the dunes to Robin's tent. (You would never know she had just been startled awake.) "He was injured today on the field? He was not brought to the surgeon's tent."

"No, he is my master," Much corrected what he saw as the more egregious of her assumptions first. "His injury has been with him for...many months. Almost a year. But it was healed." In the (to him) eerie desert night, his next question seemed a logical one. "Do you suppose he's been bewitched?" He brought the torch around as he turned his upper body to look at her in the light.

She had to bob and weave out of the way to avoid being set aflame.

Much did not notice. "Do you know anything of dark magicks? Anything that we might do? A potion we could make?" He was desperately, frantically serious.

She was not given to casual smiling, but she repressed one at his remark. "Let us first see of him what there is to see before we..."

"We are arrived!" Much proclaimed, cutting off her attempt at a kind reply to his wild theory.

She bent down to enter the tent flap and found things with this man, Much's lord, as she had expected: his once-healed wound had festered, and he was soon to be in the grip of rot and delirium far beyond what he experienced now. Already his gums bled. She instructed Much on what to do, and attempted to help this Sir Robin as best she could, finding it a task, also, to calm down his man, this nearly-hysterical servant, grieving his (not yet) fallen master.

Before she returned to DeMoure's tent, Much asked her name.

"Salima," she had answered, and he had found it strange that it came with no other qualifier. It was like his own, "Much," no 'of' or 'from', or last name of a family, just 'Much'. Yet for all that the bruise was now well-set into her face, she did not appear to be DeMoure's servant. In fact, in the time they worked here together Much had nearly forgotten to notice the mark of violence on her.

As she was leaving, his curiosity got the best of him. "How is it that you are Saracen and you are here, with us? With the King?"

Her back seemed to tense and straighten at his question. "I may ask," her tone was not quite arch (she had never gotten used to being thought of as only either Saracen _or_ English-both distinctions to her distasteful)," how is it that _you_ are English and you are yet here," her eyes took in the desert sand of this Palestinian landscape, "-with _your_ King?"

Much's mouth fell open at her challenge, and he returned to Robin within the tent as she departed, and spent the next hours as he tended his master muttering a series of glib replies and witty rejoinders to a woman who was no longer there to be impressed by them.

**SCENE:** Still in Crusade flashback. A day later. DeMoure's tent. Night.

"Sultana."

She awoke to Richard's face, illumined by the lantern he held. Held in his own hand, no retainers or guard present with him as he stood here within Sir Stephen DeMoure's tent.

He had come for her himself.

The clothing he wore was simple, comfortable, quite the change from the soldier's gear he wore in the day. The crown was absent from his head, and only his several rings, their stones like fire even in the night's muted moonlight, were there to remind of his kingship.

DeMoure grunted from his cot.

Not impressed, Richard straightened and applied his boot to the underside of the hammocked fabric, and in one motion dumped Sir Stephen unceremoniously to the ground, and onto his knees. The position he should have assumed immediately upon discerning the King's entrance.

"Bring you things," Richard told her, disinterested in Sir Stephen now that he was appropriate in his physical, if not mental, obeisance. "_All_ your things, Salima. You will not return to this tent until I have no more immediate need of you."

With speed and efficiency, not unlike the previous night, she made ready, finishing long before he could have any complaint of her.

"The need," he shared as he took her hand in an oddly Courtly gesture, helping her through the tent flap and out into the starry night, "is quite immediate, I confess."

"As you wish, my lord," she assured him, not referencing any shock she might feel at being rousted from sleep by the King himself, and not a squire, servant or page. And at the King arriving entirely unaccompanied.

He spoke to her casually, as was his way with her, her own temperament (given to silences rather than chatter) had always allowed him a space for unrehearsed, unjudged self-expression that he enjoyed, though often forgot about when not in her presence.

"He is gravely ill, Sultana," he confided in her, though she had known the condition of this Sir Robin well enough from her visit the other night. "You must understand; I," he used the informal, singular pronoun, "cannot lose Robin. We should have come ourselves," he returned to the royal 'we', "the other night and seen to him. If only we had not dismissed Much's terror as only a hazard of his dramatic ways. But we have only just seen him, seen Robin, tonight. We-I have not the knowledge of healing that you do, of course, but I have seen many a man die, many a man waste away with rot. I am no stranger to such sights. But our best Robin is absent from his head, and has spent the days calling for his father-dead the last few years." In his obvious distress, he vacillated between the formal and informal in his speech. He continued, "his eyes look to me, to Much, and know us not. His wound is opened such that I may almost put my hand into it."

They were arrived at the tent.

"I shall attend with you," Richard said, startling her as she entered. The King, the Lionheart did not attend on sickbeds.

The servant Much's eyes were wilder than they had been the last time she saw him, and his lord, Sir Robin was, as Richard had accurately reported, much worse. Not only did he not know himself or any other, he had refused food and drink for the past day, in his delusions believing it poisoned.

"You will bring me water," she told the servant Much. "Fresh water you will boil and let cool."

Turning to the King, she added, "We must find any fruit, Majesty, fresh is preferable, but dried will do."

"It shall be found and brought, of course," Richard answered, attempting to balance his bulk on a far too small camp chair, "But what good may that do if he will neither eat nor drink?"

"You and I together, my lord," she promised, "and he shall drink."

* * *

Salima knew their supply lines were currently compromised, knew that fresh fruits of any kind were often rare in camp (French and English knights often distrustful of the exotic shapes and flavors such foods wore), but she had hoped that the King might be able to gather enough to do some good.

But it appeared the situation was more grave than even she knew. Dried figs and three citrus fruits were all that could be discovered on short notice, even on the King's directive. The figs were not of immediate use to her, but the citrus she squeezed into the now tepid water brought by Much.

Sir Robin's eyes had opened in the time before Much had returned with the water, and she believed he could see what was now going on around him, even if he were not lucid enough to understand it.

"Highness," she asked Richard, who, after returning with what fruits he could commandeer had taken a seat anxiously at the head of the cot, "you must hold him at the shoulders after we sit him up."

Richard lifted Sir Robin's lank-with-illness upper body like that of a child, bracing the man's back against his side, so that he was leaning against the solid, doughty strength of his King.

She did not ask anything of Much, who held the waiting cup. She herself moved to straddle the cot, trapping Sir Robin's legs and lower body with hers.

Beyond her line of sight, she could not see Much's incredulous reaction at her disrespectful and coarse treatment of his master.

Her movement roused Sir Robin, and his ire. His eyes snapped into sharp focus on her. "You will get off of me," he demanded, venom in his tone.

She put her hand out to take the cup from Much, the servant's eyes big as dinner plates. Sir Robin's eyes followed her gesture, and for a moment (the first in three days), he recognized his faithful attendant.

"Much," he shouted, "my sword, we must defend ourselves!"

Much looked to the King (whom Robin could not see was the man holding him). Richard's face was stern as he steeled himself against a madman's desperation.

Much made no move to help Robin.

"Witch!" Sir Robin spat at Salima (she had often been called far, far worse, and over far more provocation) as she wedged the heavy oak tankard between his jaws and forced the drink into him, one hand massaging his throat until he had to swallow. Sure to wait for him to take it all down, she did not immediately remove the tankard from where it pried his teeth apart.

"Don't let them do this to me, Much! Much!" He screamed like a man scalded. "By her scorpion eyes, she will kill us all!" He wailed and shouted in a way he surely would never have done had he had his wits about him.

When the moment had passed and Sir Robin had quieted, passing again into the fullness of oblivion, the King spoke to her alone.

"You will stay here, nursing only him. Do not return to the surgeon's tent without our leave, and do not return to Sir Stephen. You sleep here, you eat here. Much will do for you as you need." In a moment his voice changed as he switched away from giving commands. "I cannot lose him, Sultana. Robin is like no one else to us. It is a great responsibility we give you, putting his welfare into your hands."

"And God's," she reminded him, not wishing to bear the brunt solely on her own Kismet-bound shoulders should things turn out differently than the King desired. _That is the trouble with the English,_ she thought (though she would never have criticized Richard aloud), _always thinking they can change what is to be._

And so Salima moves in with Much and Robin, but it is not many days before she knows that what Robin needs he cannot receive at this desert camp. The festering of his wound is too far gone, and the needed supplies are not arriving.

She does not see that Much greatly resents her presence, a daily reminder that he alone is not enough for the nursing of his master. Additionally he resents the King's directive that he must serve Salima, this woman that does not, in his opinion, know her right place (though he is rather uncertain of what that place might actually be).

The final straw in their non-existent relationship comes when she tells Richard, without conferring with Much, that Sir Robin must be sent home if he is to live.

The lack of a compassionate note (to Much's ear) when Salima speaks of Robin, and the callousness and disrespectfulness of her treatment of him (which Much fails to see as necessary in order to save Robin's life) further alienate him from her.

If only he could have known how hard it had been for her to send Robin of Locksley away, how she dreaded to bring the need of it up to the King.

After all, she had tried to convince herself, the King had decreed her removal from the abusive Sir Stephen DeMoure's tent (and life) for the length of Sir Robin's treatment and convalescence. Every day she kept the English knight in the Holy Land (even if it meant his eventual death) was a day she remained free.

And though he could not tell it, she liked Much. She found his light chatter a nice change, and could not have been more impressed with his treatment of his master, the gentle and tender things he did for him above and beyond his subscribed duty.

_But was it right to broker her own respite from mistreatment on the life of this man? To gamble so?_ She knew well that sending Sir Robin to England might prove the death of him. It was a harsh and long trip (so she was told). He might not survive. But she always came back to the fact that she was certain he _would not_ survive here.

She did not know what Fate held for him, and she found herself quite confused over the choosing of what to do with him. She had been allowed choices in so little of her own life, when confronted with the choice of how to best protect his, and how she (might) best protect her own, she found that she could not settle on which benefit to privilege.

In the end she chose the unknown for him: the voyage home. And for herself: the known, the already endured, the Fate she believed spun for herself long before her birth.

She had no idea in choosing so she had made herself an undeserving enemy of the two Englishmen.

**TBC**


	29. Into the French Woods

**SCENE:** Traveling. Robin has ridden ahead, scouting the way. Marian lets her mount drop back, alongside Much, whom she has noted in the back of her mind has gone a bit sour with the trip.

**Marian:** You are well?

**Much:** Quite, my lady.

**Marian:** And anxious to return with Robin?

**Much:** Yes, certainly. [oops] That is, it will be nice to be of some utility again. Here, we are so far removed from our responsibilities it is like-

**Marian:** A sabbatical?

**Much:** ?

**Marian:** A holiday.

**Much:** Yes, I suppose it rather is.

**Marian:** [chews a little on her lip] I plan to ask Robin to lengthen his holiday.

**Much:** But he-

**Marian:** You and the others can surely do without him a little longer...

**Much:** Er. But what of the Sheriff? Of Gisborne? What if they should become curious as to his whereabouts?

**Marian:** Guy? [stunned, confused] Guy lives? Robin didn't, hasn't?

**Much:** [confounded by her response] You are disappointed?

**Marian:** I had just. Assumed. [quickly] The Sheriff still governs, uncensured?

**Much:** All things are, on balance, as they were. [Pause] [corrects himself] Will and D'Jaq stayed behind.

**Marian:** [somewhat peevishly, though it is not Much's fault] And so _they_ may have what you will not bless for Robin and me?

_Marian digs heels into her horse, who obediently surges forward, leaving Much feeling like he only just dodged a whirlwind._

**Much:** [sullenly, to no one] Wouldn't have given them my blessing either. [Sighs] Not that they asked.

* * *

**SCENE:** On the French road to Aquitaine.

Robin took the reins of Marian's mount. "I will go and discard the litter," he told them, directing Marian and her filly deeper into the forest, where the dismantled traveling stretcher would not be found, lest it give anything away unnecessarily about Marian's health and provenance.

"I shall come, too!" Much announced with gusto, certainly not wishing to remain behind with Salima and the three other horses.

"Much," came a voice from behind him, _that_ woman's voice. She was probably going to tell him her horse had thrown a shoe, or to order him to go and find water.

He gave an exasperated sound. "Yes, what?" He had no time for this-another moment and Robin and Marian would be lost to the forest, and he had never been an especially good tracker.

"Let us take a moment for luncheon," Salima suggested pleasantly, her horse's saddlebags holding the bread and cheese, his, the wine skins.

"Yes, but," he protested, craning his neck trying not to lose sight of Marian, tallest in her saddle, and their trail. Much swiftly dismounted, setting his feet toward where they had entered the underbrush.

_That_ woman was already to his stirrup, blocking his way.

"Come," she offered, gesturing in the opposite direction to where a small roadside clearing would prove ideal for seating two lunch companions.

"No. I," he had lost sight of them now, yet began another round of protest, trying to find a chivalrous way to remove her from his path.

"We will eat," she said.

"No. Not now. I want to help Robin and Marian."

For a moment she looked at him, taking his measure. "I do not think you are wanted right now."

And here was the snit, "And what do you know about it?"

"I know that right now," her voice was calm, almost soothing, "to those two, anyone else venturing into the forest would prove quite superfluous."

"Super-what?"

"There are some things," she had her hands now full of the bread and cheese, carrying them to the clearing opposite, "some things in life, Much, that the doing of requires only two."

He had the decency to blush, adding petulantly, as a way to save face, "Robin was only going to hide the litter."

She did not say, 'of course he was,' or 'of course he was not'. She only handed him the cheese. And smiled companionably.

Now, that _was_ a first.

* * *

**SCENE:** Now, with Robin and Marian.

The forest grew close here, young and abundant with underbrush, which sprang back over their tracks so quickly it would be easy to conceal their trail. The animals were not used to strangers, their presence here caused birds and beasts to fall silent, as the creatures watched to see what might come next of the green-clad man leading a fine lady on horseback, a slanted bed strung through the horse's saddle and half-dragging behind.

When the couple was far enough away by Robin's reckoning from the road, he lifted Marian down solely out of courtesy (she was not yet tired from the day), and together they unhitched the wooden litter made of tree branches cut and selected just for this purpose, woven as one might a basket and filled in with dried bark and moss.

A few good tugs in just the right places and it would fall to pieces in this small glade, never revealing its construction or utility. It would be only wood, bark, moss, perfectly at home on the forest floor.

"Was it comfortable?" asked the man, who, with Much, had fashioned it.

"See for yourself," the lady suggested, surprised when he did lie down on it. Now flat to the ground it looked like a low camp bed.

"Stay," she said, meaning a sojourn longer than one a camp bed in the woods could accommodate. _Stay with me_, she echoed in her mind, finishing the thought.

"I would," he said.

"Then do," she said, cutting him off.

"And what shall I be at court, then? I cannot be your husband. Shall I hide in the woods? Shall I open a franchise of the gang here, in Aquitaine, where the people grow fat and happy, well-treated by the lords? Where justice is properly managed and meted out? Where Robin Hood...is not needed?"

She watched as he lightly refuted her request, his surface attitude breezy and shallow.

"Then be Robin of Locksley, Earl of Huntingdon, visiting lord at the court of the Queen." Even her own mind warned her, as she finally said it aloud, of the foolishness of her proposal.

"Is that really what you want, Marian? To give it all up? To turn our backs-for Robin Hood and the Nightwatchman to turn their backs on Nottinghamshire? On England? On Locksley? _And Knighton_? I cannot be Huntingdon here," he shook his head, his tone and speech showing her just how deeply he had already thought this out. "Prince John has spies in the court, of certain. I am a wanted man, and you, you are not only my wife but also a wolf's-head in your own right. Protected only by the fact that you are well-known to be dead."

"You cannot stay," her voice threatened with quiet keening, "and I may not go." She did not mean to ask it again, his case was well-made, and echoed her own logical reflections on the subject, but still, like an involuntary hiccup, like a reflex over which she had no control, a small voice escaped her lips, and asked again, "Please. Stay."

Robin, quickly exhausted by this unexpected intersection of disharmony begged, "let us not waste moments arguing over what is to come."

"No," she agreed, down on her knees beside him, kissing his face in one-thousand places, his beard growing in again prickily from where he had shaved it clean just before they had left the abbey's cottage.

"Come now," he admonished her, "your fine dress will be dirty ere you arrive at Court."

"I care nothing for my fine dress," she declared. "Everything I care about will soon be far from here, for it is all in your heart."

"Then let us have another look at its mate-_your_ heart," he suggested, "lest I forget to learn myself on all that is within it." His expert hand loosened enough of the back lacings on her dress to bare her shoulders, further loosed, baring more.

But with the rush of excitement from his saucy advances came also a rising panic.

_I am always left, she thought, always. Mother-barely a memory, Clem-nothing but broken promises, Father-gone. Robin-leaving._ The realization of again being on her own, this time an entire country away from the one she loved hit her hard. Much harder that she would have expected. Something inside of her was out of balance. She assumed it was the emotional turmoil of their imminent parting. She would usually be able to keep herself together under nearly any circumstance. She was a person who fell apart later, after the fact.

He had not spoken falsely. He was after finding her heart. His cheekbone rested against it like a pillow made for just such a need. He had only to tilt his head back to kiss the underside of her chin. And impishly tickle her bared top with the loosened laces of her dress.

She was _not_-she was going to cry. She felt it. She was going to sob desperately for all she was worth, ruining this moment here in the woods on the way to Aquitaine.

It was not so much that she minded being left (she was certainly used to it) she concluded, but rather that this present happiness was so perfect, so much only hers, only his-and of their own private making she could not agree to part with it. Certainly not easily, if at all.

His hand massaged her neck, its muscles taut with the tumult of her thoughts. _What would she do at Court? Who could the Nightwatchman find to help in Aquitaine? Of what use could she be to anyone? Was she doomed to that fate she had been so terrified of for as long as she could remember knowing that it waited for her: to lose the mastery of her own life, her own choices? Lose her ability to exercise her free-will?_

Marian fumbled about for Robin's mouth, grabbing at him with a gusto he had not expected. She kissed him fiercely, making up her mind: she would not let the trauma of their parting and separation steal from this present time. Her tears she would save for the lonely hours to come, and the happiness she felt, she would preserve in her heart, committing times such as this to her deepest and most sacred memories. This could not be done without banishing her fear of the future, of the Aquitaine Court.

As this resolution, this new emotional wave surged through her, she clutched great handfuls of her skirts at the thigh, until the sun and air could be felt on her legs, until his own legs could be felt, amorously entangling in hers.

If her old life in Nottingham was dead to her, if her current, charmed happiness was soon to die also, then she must forge a new life, built not on disappointments and compromise, but on the foundation of this present bliss; the closeness of his body, warm, his strong beating heart, pledged to hers for eternity. Their agreed, profound desire to see things to the end, to live for and work toward a better day: the King home, the Sheriff punished, the people fed. A world where the possibility of such present happiness was more powerful than mere memory. Where it was so common as to be entirely average.

Energized by her quickly swirling thoughts, she moved her hips to roll him onto his back.

"You amaze me," he marveled, breathlessly, unaware of the thoughts occupying her head, or the way in which they informed and excited her in their present engagement.

* * *

His own thoughts, though in this moment less eloquent, were not very dissimilar to her own. And if she did not, at this joining, reach a moment of intellectual disconnect, he could not be blamed for holding her to him over-tightly, his grip on her somewhat violent, as though soldiers might appear at any moment to physically part them, as though he thought to absorb some part of her permanently within himself by sheer force of will.

There were moments in his life where words deserted Robin of Locksley. Here he attempted to remedy that with carnal communication. To again tell her things he had already said aloud, now to underscore them with the actions, the caresses and sensations his body might offer.

He did not know how he could stop making love to her. How he could bring himself to willingly conclude this dance of physical unity. He longed for the outside-of-time-ness of their encounter to stretch on indefinitely, caught as though in amber.

And when against his will he was spent, he longed to never have her more distant from him than in that moment-the only barriers between them the soft clothing they had not altogether shed. He longed to always and ever breathe only the same air she did.

Fleetingly he felt that they were _not_ here in a French dell, despite the unfamiliar foliage, the unknown birds singing, but rather in Sherwood, their own forest which they need never leave. Were his title and lands restored to him or not, should the King return or never, they need not stir. Here they had found their home, their past, and their future.

He thought about death in that forest he briefly mistook for Sherwood, of the two of them side by side as falling leaves might bury them, as time and the elements might weather them down into dry old bones, knit in an amorous knot forever. Discovered by no one. Searched for by no one.

With the back of his hand, he stroked down Marian's feather-down-like skin, it dimpling with his touch, the back of his hand less calloused and more sensitive to the act. _Living flesh,_ he re-assured himself (he had feared it dead for those long, long months), _filled with possibility, sprung with the impetuosity of the unknown, the alluring smell of earth and desire_.

On such thoughts, his body depleted, his mind tiring, he surrendered to sleep.

* * *

**SCENE:** Much and Salima at lunch. It is a quiet repast, one threatening to conclude long before the "hiding the litter" tryst in the woods.

It is too late by the time they hear the gallop of approaching hooves, there is no time to conceal both their persons, horses, and the trappings of lunch being had within the forest. (Much's annoyance with Salima has perhaps momentarily dulled his outlaw instincts.)

The rider slows at the sight of their abbey-marked saddles, part of the seal of which is Richard's Lion.

"Halloo the forest!" he shouted, from his uniform, a royal messenger. "Halloo the Lady Salima, who serves the Lionheart!"

Much, himself rarely anything other than a ball of nerves, noted with satisfaction (if not with surprise) that Salima seemed utterly relaxed and in control of the situation when she identified herself and took the pouch extended to her.

"Your message is delivered, sir," she told him, and then _did_ surprise Much by producing a gold coin (he was not very familiar with the local currency), which she placed in the rider's open hand. From its size it was a considerably larger sum than should be given for delivering a message, the rider likely to be in want of nothing, as he served the royal house. "When you return, tell none but the King should he ask where you found us. And arrive yourself home as if coming back from the northeast, and the Roman road."

Much grabbed the hilt of his sheathed sword with his free-of-cheese hand, lest the man seem disinclined to agree to her order.

But the rider proved no problem, his horse and him gone, turned back toward the abbey and its nearby village before he would have had more than a chance to catch his breath.

Salima opened the leather pouch with suspicion. At first it appeared empty. She looked up at Much, a look of concern on her face: why send a courier with a bare pouch? What could such an action mean?

"Look again," he encouraged, taking a step closer should he be needed to help.

It was then she found it, the tiny, still tightly rolled paper. Upon unspooling it her face's expression shifted into unsuppressed bewilderment. "I think this must be something for your eyes, Much. To mine it looks like something a peahen might scratch in the sand, looking for grubs."

He was too intrigued about the message to dislike admitting to her, "But I cannot read."

"I do not think you shall have to," she answered, her hand extending the slip of curled paper.

* * *

**SCENE:** The woods.

Robin has fallen asleep in Marian's arms, and she certainly does not wish to disturb his catnap, nor her satisfaction in being beside him.

But it is only scant minutes before she hears Much storming through the underbrush frenetically, calling, "Master! John has been taken! Little John! Our John!", and so their return to the larger world is far sooner and far more abrupt than expected.

No longer is there any question (or expectation) of Robin staying in France a moment longer.

**TBC**


	30. Remember me to one who lives there

_Please see Author's Profile for notes and disclaimers._

* * *

**SCENE:** Once the message (such as it is) of John's imprisonment is relayed to Robin, the foursome set out for their destination as though Hell itself were at their heels.

There is nothing to do but press on. Salima and Marian cannot in good conscience be sent on alone so that Robin and Much might immediately turn back and travel east to port. Rather, they must go west toward the Queen's city, see the women to safety and face the pointless task of re-tracing their steps back the road they have just traveled.

Robin's grim reaction to the news turns swiftly grimmer as it couples in his mind and dark thoughts multiply with those growing over parting with Marian. Leave-taking at the outskirting village surrounding the Queen's city.

**Robin:** [tormented] I should not have come. I should stay longer? If everything is a choice, how can I then choose? Shall I choose life with you over John's life? [grabs Marian's two hands] I fully repent my earlier decision. I will stay with you. I will stay forever if you only ask me in this moment. Do you see how I now waver, as did you before? I will throw John away. I will throw all away to stay only near you. This is madness. Ask me to stay.

**Marian:** [resolute] Go. It is John. I will not be the cause of him dead. I am not of much service to anyone here, and shall not be for [gasps at the realization that their separation will again be long] many months, but this I can do. This choice I can make. _For us_. In this instant I can be strong for us both. You must go. [without a break] Now give me your knife.

**Robin:** My kni-?

_Marian already has it out of its sheath at his waist (some reflexes never grow rusty). Before he knows what she is doing, she slices through her braid, separating it from the nape of her neck. Half of her hair had been caught up in it (the top half, the lower hangs free), so what hair remains on her head falls now into long layers over the bottom uncut layer, the longest, well below her shoulders. _

_She returns the knife to its home as he looks on in wonderment. Using the simple leather thong that had tied off the end of the braid, she interlaces and knots it to the other end, braceleting it around his wrist, a lover's token. Robin touches her hair (on her head), tenderly. He then touches the hair at his wrist. They embrace._

**Robin:** No. No. [pulls away] I must look at you. I must see you.

_Robin disengages her from the embrace, and holds her away from him. He studies her face. She struggles to regain her composure for a moment, and returns his even gaze. They are separated only by the length of his arms, his hands on her elbows. We feel that in this they are memorizing one another, words and actions no longer of any use to them. It appears that his hands on her elbows are all that is holding both of them up. _

_Even though their actions and touching in this moment are not sensual, it leaves no doubts in viewer's minds the almost impossible plan of action they've chosen. The hopelessness of an indeterminate time and a sorrowful geography of separation they will spend apart. Neither has any thought of the future (immediate or distant) in their mind in this instant. The "now" is far too overwhelming._

We end on this shot. (Because honestly, we cannot bear to further watch, or imagine their parting any more vividly.)

.

**SCENE:** continued. After Salima and Marian have passed through the gates of the city, Robin and Much's faces now behind them, unseeable in the vanishing-from-view underbrush.

**Salima:** This man they go to rescue. He may already be dead. Executed, yes?

**Marian:** [in defense] We cannot know that.

**Salima:** [mulling their actions over in her mind] It is a lot to risk for them, it would appear, this hasty return.

**Marian:** It was a lot to risk for them to come here. This man they go to rescue has taken a lot of risk for them. For me, even.

**Salima:** So you have said. [shrugs] I do not understand it. The coming or the going. Perhaps, especially the going.

**Marian:** Would not the King do the same?

**Salima:** [considering] Yes. The King would, but the King is no ordinary man.

_Marian shares a look with her that makes it clear that Robin (and Much) are also 'no ordinary men'._

**Salima:** [never dwelling on any laudatory comment too long] You proved formidable in his decision to depart, I think.

**Marian:** [begins to half-swoon, catches herself on her saddle] Get me to the castle and bed, Salima, ere I faint. I have many long days ahead of me to regret such formidability spilling forth from my character. [smiles weakly at her own sarcasm, a second swoon close behind the first]

.

And so Marian arrives at the city of Queen Eleanor, and the Court, exhausted from the hard ride and rushed ending of the journey, but thankfully appearing more a bad traveller than someone convalescing from a near-fatal abdominal wound. This impression (though false) persists among the Court; that she is a bit of a shrinking violet, likely to be carried off by the slightest thing. This belief aids her during her continuing recovery period (and her ongoing grief over the departure of Robin), as no doubts are raised when she declines invitations and spends much time in her chamber in the coming months.

Among the Court, Marian will be known as "Lady Matilda" a just-above-nobody in status lady-in-waiting to the Queen (who knows her to be Robin's wife, new-made Lady Huntingdon).

Robin and Much depart for England, the secret of Marian's life still in tact.

* * *

We return to England (Robin and Much still on their journey home, not yet landed). Allan-A-Dale has, as he set out to do, found his way to Scarborough.

He feels an odd, half-remembered rush upon arriving in a new city filled with new places, new people-new marks. His trip here bears some little flavor of his old days of grifting. It also bears the soured taste of knowing Little John to be a prisoner, and Robin and Much perhaps unreachable by his message.

He quickly finds that Auntie Annie is not enough of a name to locate anyone, and after four days of dawn-'til-dark searching and tavern-trawling for information, no one named Scarlet appears to exist in the city entire. Or to ever have done so.

His last hope has become a blacksmith he has been told might know something of Nottingham, and so he sets out to pay this smithy a visit, to see if he might know of any recent migrs of the Sheriff's shire.

You could knock him over with a feather when he enters the busy, sweltering forge only to find Luke Scarlet working the bellows, mid-shodding of a horse.

**Allan:** [chuffed] What's this? Got yerself up to a bit of a position in society, yeah? _'Go see the smithy.'_ they tell me, _'if you want to know anything about anything around here'_.

**Luke:** [smiles, happy to see Allan, if oddly a bit nervous of his visit] I did not think to see you here!

**Allan:** Yeah, well, [making himself at home, picking through tools, perusing the waiting livestock and items needing repair] got a few tales to tell, [upbeat] few favors to ask, a few glasses to lift, eh? [nudge nudge]

_Luke reaches a stopping point in his current project and surreptitiously invites Allan through a doorway into a small sitting room of what is obviously his living quarters attached to the forge. _

_Luke's acting as though their meeting is clandestine or in some way needs to be kept secret confuses Allan, as he is not known nor wanted in Scarborough, which is beyond the Sheriff's reach. _

_Allan seats himself as Luke leaves the room to bring them drinks. His surroundings show him Luke is doing quite well for himself. Allan catches himself eyeing a few of the nicer things in the room a bit too closely, and has to stop himself short. Luke returns._

**Allan:** [diving right in]: No Luke Scarlet anymore? Luke Smith now? What's that about? [joking] One jailbird to another: in trouble with the law?

**Luke:** [seriously, more so than Allan would like to see him] The Scarlet boys were set for hanging in Nottingham before they escaped. [continues list of reasons Allan's visit has incommoded him: fear of his cover being blown] Their sentences have not been commuted. Their father was killed for speaking out against the Sheriff. The eldest joined with Robin Hood's gang, and most-recently married _a Saracen_. [shakes head] The name Scarlet's not welcome in Scarborough. [bitter sigh] Not if you want to have customers. Or friends.

_It is unclear if Luke is bitter at the people of the town, or sides with them in the matter._

**Allan:** [processing Luke's list] Whew. [changing the subject] Been hard to find you.

_Allan shares the details of John's being taken, Robin and Much's unpredictable absence, and makes the request he has been eloquently practicing in his mind the length of the long journey here. He holds his breath, knowing it is his one chance, realizing from the comfortable surroundings Luke is hardly in a position to wish to abandon prosperity and normalcy for the forest. No matter on whose account. _

_Luke asks for a night to consider Allan's request. Allan grants it, not sure if this Luke "Smith" will even agree to see him on the morrow._

**SCENE:** Early morning, a knock on the door of Allan's room at the inn. (He has splurged so that he wouldn't have to share the barroom downstairs overnight.) His hair is slept-on (it is his first night with pillow and mattress since on the road to Portsmouth and the Holy Land). He rubs sleep from his face as Luke opens the door to his, "Come in!"

Luke is dressed for travel, with a bag in his hands.

**Luke:** [once he is fully inside the room] See, Allan, [giving his answer] what Luke _'Smith's'_ problem here in Scarborough is, is he _likes_ the name Scarlet.

_Allan, though it is too early for him to be his chipper self, grins his thanks._

**Luke:** One addendum to our agreement.

**Allan:** Name it.

**Luke:** I cannot go... [door behind him creaks further open, revealing a young woman] without my wife.

**Allan:** [rolls eyes, but not unhappily] What is it with you Scarlets and yer wimmin'?

**Luke:** [finding humor in the notion] What, have you never been in love?

**Allan:** [briskly, but truthfully] No. Not as I recollect.

**Luke's Wife:** [stepping forward, also ready for travel, a bundle in her arms] [with conviction] You would recollect.

**Allan:** [addressing the question directly to Luke] And what can she do? [meaning, 'as part of the gang']

**Luke:** [shrugs] [giving what he sees as her most impressive skill first] Aislinn can mend just about any instrument there is. And she knows the making of flutes and harps.

**Allan:** [pragmatically truthful] Not much use for that in the forest...

**Luke:** [attempting persuasiveness] She helps at the forge. And she knows letters and sums.

_Allan raises an unconvinced eyebrow._

**Luke:** [still trying, running low on her talents] She can sew?

**Aislinn:** [stepping over the threshold and into the room, presenting herself] [interrupting the men] I can cook.

**Allan:** [pleased] Done.

_And so it is settled. Luke and his wife Aislinn will away with Allan to Sherwood, at least for the present need of the rescue of John._

_And so what once was a Sherwood gang dwindled to two is now a Sherwood gang of four (one incarcerated), with two others on the way: Robin and Much, once disappeared, now in sight of the English coast._

**TBC**


	31. The Curious Rescue of Little John

_Please see Author's Profile for notes and disclaimers._

* * *

On the road, two days' walk yet to Nottingham, Robin and Much stop at the Plymouth Road Inn, where in a fortuitous bit of gossip they learn what is becoming widely told as the story of the return and restoration of Sir Clem to Knighton. It is their first encounter with the tale, which certainly holds their interest, if not their immediate belief in its overall veracity.

**SCENE:** Arrival of Robin and Much home to Sherwood Forest camp. They are expecting to find Allan. The camp is deserted and all signs indicate it has been so for more than several days. Robin and Much do not know what to make of this discovery. (They know nothing of Allan's Scarborough plan, and he had no way of leaving a message of explanation.)

Much predictably fears some sort of Allan-based betrayal. Robin believes Allan may have himself been taken whilst attempting a rescue. For the Sheriff and Gisborne now surely want Allan-A-Dale dead easily as much as they wish for Robin's head on a pike.

They cannot tarry to wait for information. There is no time further to waste in the pressing matter of Little John's imprisonment. And so they have no choice but to go in blind.

Robin and Much bide their time until late evening and hie themselves to Knighton, having not much of a plan beyond a 'this is a rescue' mentality. They do not even know for certain where Little John is being held. (The plan, etc., they were hoping to form with the input, reconnaissance and knowledge of Allan. His being MIA has gummed up the works.)

Robin sets them both to a search of all Knighton-area barns, including Clem's largest, attached to the granary, but all are bare of human inhabitants (even laborers), and show no signs of anyone having been housed or held therein.

Before they can proceed to their next (as yet un-had) idea, Gwyn, former chatelaine of Knighton Hall, now under-housekeeper's assistant at the newly-renamed Knighton House, steps out of the shadows near the village well, and announces to Robin that Knighton's new master expects him at the House.

Robin, already tired of this "hide and seek" with Little John, shares a long look with Much, and agrees to follow her.

**Gwyn:** So John is one of your men. I had wondered at the new Master's interest in him.

**Robin:** Hello, Gwyn. [as though no time has passed, no change of significance has occurred in the status of either] You and your family are well?

**Gwyn:** [offering no more] I am well.

**Robin:** [without preamble] It did not happen as they are saying.

**Gwyn:** Well, I would believe it. Did I not dress my lady for marriage to Sir Guy but a night after his dagger split her gut?

**Robin:** She cares for you, Gwyn.

_He did not bother to correct his use of the present tense when referring to Marian._

**Gwyn:** She loved you, Master Robin. It grieves me you shall never know the half of it.

**Robin:** And her brother, if it is him, shall I find any love in his heart where I am concerned?

**Gwyn:** I cannot say what you might expect. He will know me not, it seems, for all our past together he will not see me, and I am all but banished from the Ha- [corrects herself] House.

**Robin:** So it would seem "Sir Clem" has not the time, nor the inclination for the memories and acquaintances of Clem of Knighton, Edward the Sheriff's son, as was?

**Gwyn:** Tread carefully. My master is oft in Nottingham, visiting our Sheriff.

**Robin:** [sincerely] I thank you for schooling me, as it were. Do not think I know not that you were ever my champion at Knighton Hall.

**Gwyn:** Would that you were Knighton's master to my mistress.

_Robin has (and can have) no reply to this heartfelt (but dangerous for one in her position) declaration._

* * *

**SCENE:** Inside Knighton House (no longer Hall), its architecture grander and more castle-like than the previously modest Hall. Perhaps in its rebuilding Gisborne was influenced by his time in Nottingham Castle. Perhaps he simply used stone in an effort to ward off any future attempts of arsonists on what he then thought was to be his permanent ancestral home.

A room offset from the great room. It is a smaller, cozier place, though its fireplace remains ornate. The space has been overly lit, well beyond what low light might be necessary to see. Even so, many candles, in addition to the fire (blazing high) cast an army of shadows in contrasting, varying degrees.

Robin steps into the room, revealing himself to Clem who (of course) sits in a chair near the fire. He appears to have been waiting for Robin, and two tumblers have been set out, bearing (the now unfortunate) Gisborne family crest (obviously Clem is waiting to have some of his own made).

Always one to cut an impressive figure, even in his disability, on this night Clem also has a Heathcliff of Wuthering Heights-like air of bright danger clinging to him.

**Clem:** Ah, Robin. Delightful. You visit here for old-time's sake? To grow misty-eyed with reminiscing?

**Robin:** [cutting to the chase] [meaning, 'After all,'] We are brothers-in-law.

**Clem:** [not missing a beat] Unlikely, I think. I have it that you killed her. [long pause as they exchange looks. Robin does not protest his innocence in the matter] However, very well. You wish a husband's portion? Does it seem likely that I shall agree to surrender it? To a wife-murdering outlaw who has had the poor taste to lose his own lands, his Earldom? His very name? I know what it is to be _desdichado_, Sir Robin of _Nothing_. [further baiting him] Is it proper, do you think, to even continue addressing you as, 'Sir'? And your wife, I wonder, was she buried without a name? Just some extra body thrown in with, what, the slew of Saracen women and children Richard cut down that day before breakfast? [levelly] Yes, brothers-in-law, unlikely, I think.

**Robin:** And what is to stop me from killing you over such words? [cuttingly] For I see that words are all that you now have left to you, _Sir_ Clem.

**Clem:** [casually] I fear no physical pain. Possibly, I fear death even less. We are alone. You may do your worst.

**Robin:** My worst, at this moment I think, likely rests in simply telling you the truth of what happened to your sister, without her family, without _you_ to protect her, from the time your father lost his post as Sheriff, to her death in the sands of Acre.

_Though he, of course, knows Marian to be alive, Robin is still emotionally affected by the story of their time in the Holy Land. This is visible on his face at the telling. Despite the overall "happy" ending of things (which he does not share with Clem), it is at times such as this that Robin tastes more of the bitter than the sweet._

Robin succinctly, but completely, relates the story of Marian's life for the past seven or so years up to her 'death'.

**Clem:** [unable to tell if he was even listening as Robin spoke] You prove a hard man to get the attention of. Or perhaps you care not so much for the welfare of your gang as the tales would have us believe.

**Robin:** And so you capture my man in a bid for my attention? Quite a messy invitation.

**Clem:** Yes, well, your Hercules proved useful enough. His labors here do indeed make his sojourn with us worthwhile.

**Robin:** Aye, well, I am here for him now.

**Clem:** Oh, I'm sorry. You will not be able to see him here tonight, for he has left Knighton.

**Robin:** [his previously light tone turning hard. Takes a step forward] Where have you had him sent? [he fears: Nottingham]

**Clem:** He was released to go where he pleased upon the first sighting of you near the House. [faking boredom, yawning] I have had good use of him, certainly, but he is taxing on the purse to feed.

**Robin: **And so the taking of John is all about me. [re-scans the room for traps or hidden guards ready to seize him]

**Clem:** [dryly] Everything Robin, is not about you. You always did have a hard time understanding that. Only child syndrome, I don't doubt.

_In that comment, the light on his face just so, Clem looks very much the brother of Marian. Their eyes so alike, if his somewhat sharper than hers, the set of his mouth familiar, yet more jaded. The hair color is the same, and his occasional (though physically difficult for him) gesture strikes a chord deeply in Robin of his much-loved absent wife, and of the past, where Clem was the object of his unashamed hero worship._

Just as this Knighton is no longer the Knighton Hall we know, but has become Knighton House, so we are introduced to a Robin not quite the Robin that we know. The longer he is in Clem's company, the more he is besieged by memories, as many people are, by old, thought-banished insecurities, born anew upon confronting someone complicated from their childhood past.

**Clem:** [darkly] What is it? Do you not know me, Robin?

**Robin:** I recognize the body, if not the person, of a young man I once admired above all others.

**Clem:** [sneers sardonically]

**Robin:** [in response] It is not your lack of mobility that has changed. It is your utter lack of honor. What of your promise to serve your King?

**Clem:** What of his promise to _me_?

**Robin:** [not dignifying the question with an answer] Your promise to your sister?

_Though Robin does not see it, something has finally hit home. Robin continues in the temper Clem has expertly manipulated him into, but Clem himself has already moved on from that, the dangerous darkness leeched out of him for the moment. Still, not grasping this shift in disposition, Robin speaks on._

**Robin:** I once derided promises. I felt I had no power of my own with which to keep them. But now I see faithfulness in fulfilling a vow to be one of the few things in this life over which a man has control...

**Clem:** [shaken, bordering on desolate] [As though he does wish an answer] Though it may utterly ruin him?

**Robin:** [resolute] Though it may utterly ruin him.

**Clem:** Rob. Wh-

**Robin:** [coldly] Stop. That is what my father called me. You are not my father.

**Clem:** Ah, fathers. We both of us know enough of that subject.

**Robin:** [persuasively] When your brother Edrick died, before I can well-remember, we two were fated to be neighbors, brothers, allies in all things-Knighton and Locksley united until the end of our days.

**Clem:** [not denying it] Ah, but what if, in addition to Fate there exists something else, the unplanned, the unforeseeable? Something terrifying in its capriciousness? Let us call it 'chaos'. The idea of an overarching force of anarchy in the shaping of one's life for which nothing can prepare us, but against which we have only the power to choose how to confront it.

**Robin:** If you did not use such derogatory words in your referencing of this power, I believe many would call it, 'God'. Do you fancy yourself such a 'force of anarchy'? Terrifying those around you with your caprice?

**Clem:** [ready now to level with him] Easy now, Robin, I was only testing your mettle. I do not fancy myself a god, nor a force with which to be reckoned. You must recall that you were but fourteen when I saw you last, withy, a terror to every girl's mother in seven miles, and married already to your bow, but from such a limited boyish acquaintance I could hardly know what bloodthirstiness, perversion or proclivity Crusade might have birthed in you, for all it is said you are Richard's particular favorite. And so it has been but a task for me to find and suss you out, sifting the rumors from the reality. Here, let us be reconciled, [significantly] Brother.

_And with that, Clem is ready to share his full truth with Robin. As a roundly confused Robin looks on (Clem's paraplegia well-noted by all), Clem brings to bear great effort against his chair, shockingly rising to his feet, and extends a hand slick with the sweat of the exertion to Robin. Thus the real meat of their summit begins._

**The Pimpernellish Tale of Sir Clem**

Sir Clem of Knighton proves to be both what he seems to be, and yet, not.

In the space of a sentence or two he can tell the absolute truth of one matter, yet lie convincingly about the next.

Against the express wishes of his father (who had already lost his firstborn son, Edrick, to war), Clem set out at the age of 21 to join not-yet-king Richard's army. He had little left to lose at the time, as disagreements and hot blood had alienated him from his grieving and (at that time) controlling father, Sir Edward, then-Sheriff of Nottingham, who had chosen to publicly disinherit him, stripping him of any chance to stay in Nottinghamshire and make something of himself. At this time Marian was but 12 (so not quite still in napkins as Clem deliberately mis-represented to the Sheriff). Robin was 14. Her affection for Clem was such that, with a deceased mother and a distant bureaucrat of a father, Clem was her whole world. Before he left, she elicited an un-keepable promise from him: that no matter what happened, he would return for her, never leaving her alone with only her father.

Within the year, Clem is known for dead. [Two years after that, Robin and Marian's engagement is announced-Marian 15, Robin 17. Two years more, and Robin leaves on Crusade at 19, almost 20, with a now coronated Richard-Marian 17, returning 5 years after that (the beginning of the series). Seasons One and Two passed over the course of 3 to 4 years, making Clem in present time age 35].

But war destroys as many men as it makes, and Clem's battlefield injury is of such severity that he is taken for dead and left with the corpses.

Though we will not detail as to how, in a bit of The English Patient-like-ness, he is cared for by wandering desert nomads who find him, and nursed back to the level of health their medicines and care can bring him to.

Rather than making Wad his servant, it is Wad who becomes his best friend and closest companion. Knowing that only a return to Knighton covered in glory and the King's favor will matter, Clem allows himself to be taken home to Wad's country, on the Bay of Biscay, south of Aquitaine, where he surely plans to live out the rest of his days, a nameless once-knighted man who will be a forever-invalid, forgotten by his fighting brotherhood, no longer wanted by his family, left behind by his King.

But in the peaceful mountains of Wad's home in the Western Pyrenees, his bitterness finds relief, and his heart finds a hope that he may yet have reason to live and to enjoy the life he has now been given.

Still, he is more than contented to stay on with the Basque people, enjoying their simple lives and interests. Life in the East Midlands and Nottinghamshire are distant memories now, as though the dreams and imaginings of another man entirely.

Unexplainably, one day a stranger passes through with news that brings to Clem a desire to return home: the old Sheriff of Nottingham has died under shocking circumstances, and the current Sheriff's rumored treason toward Richard and support of John hangs on a knife's edge.

Sir Clem of Knighton will return not as he has since publicly declared, to lay claim his properties, his banned inheritance, _but_ to see what he might do for the peasants, serf, and free of Knighton, and even, for his King (with whom his heart, if not his person, has made peace).

He knew not what he rode into, with Wad at his side, but the closer they came to the shire at tavern stops along the way stories grew of a man on a course to out-Herod Herod, this new Sheriff of Nottingham, and a plan was quickly put into place that once arrived and installed as Knighton's lord, he and Wad might practice whatever subterfuge necessary to secretively frustrate this tyrant at every chance.

To perpetuate such a masquerade would require stealth, finesse, and absolute secrecy. Particularly about his ever-improving physical ability. For such was his greatest asset-after all, what is less of a threat than a man who cannot so much as move? What matters the plotting of the bed-ridden?

It is not until his arrival in Nottingham that he learns (the widely circulated, Sheriff-manufactured story) of Marian's death, and of the burning of the Hall, his childhood home. This black news serves to further strengthen his resolve.

Since his return home, he has played his cards well, and become a man all but above suspicion in the eyes of the Sheriff. (The servant/spy the Sheriff gave him has unearthed nothing to diminish the Sheriff's trust of Clem.) Something so hard-won Clem will not treat lightly, but it is a dangerous game he plays, and a narrow line he walks, believed a traitor himself, with only mute Wad to vindicate him, and opportunities to stumble into unmasking himself at every turn.

It will indeed be the long game for him, though not quite the one his father chose.

* * *

**SCENE:** Much and Robin, on the return path to camp.

**Robin:** He _is_ the man we knew, Much. He _may_ be true, but...we cannot stint on Knighton. Our efforts here must still match those elsewhere. We must not tip his hand. We move against Clem of Knighton just as we do all men in power who do nothing. We take theirs to give those in need. The game he plays (if he does, in fact, speak truly now and plays _versus_ the Sheriff and not _with_) we cannot join him in until we are more sure of him.

**Much:** [aghast, especially as it appears John has been released without further incident] But he is Marian's brother!

**Robin:** [urging caution] He is a man who once was many things. And who is now nothing so much as a spectre I cannot _quite_ get my mind around; able to shape himself to any whim of the moment. It is a talent one perhaps admires, my friend, but one that hardly inspires trust.

* * *

The final shot of Knighton House shows (though no one outside the room may see it) Clem and Wad in silhouette by the fire (we hear no sounds of their conversation), Clem apparently recounting the important points of Robin's visit, until he begins to labor over a certain section, clearly finding it difficult to go on, and we know it is the Marian portion he labors over, until he utterly breaks down, Wad his only comfort, his only friend. 


	32. Dead Men Tell No Tales

**In France,** Marian is assigned a young page at the Aquitaine Court, twelve-year-old Tristan, who worships the ground she walks upon, and who fears Salima as though she were a witch. He is obsessed with stories circulating around the lesser Court and among the servants of the dashing English outlaw Robin Hood, and seems unable not to share them with anyone who will stand still long enough to listen.

Marian is a willing, though outwardly skeptical, listener. Over the ever-lengthening separation from Robin, they become her only touchstone to her heart and her home (she arranges to be 'writing letters' several times when Tristan begins to recite the tales, so she may hastily copy them down and later learn them by heart).

Many of the gang's recounted feats, she well knows, are greatly exaggerated, as she _hopes_ are the tales (in the more bawdy ones) of Robin's romantic conquests of many a Nottingham lass. Still, when she is alone, Marian clings to the tales-especially the newer ones, hoping they contain enough truth to be almost-not quite-news. She believes, however misguided it may be, that as long as the tales are updated Robin is safe, and free amongst Sherwood.

She is careful, at Salima's insistence, not to be caught singing (or humming) any of the ones transposed into song. But it is hard for her.

**SCENE:** Marian (now the Lady Matilda)'s chambers. Tristan has stopped by with news. As a page he is allowed the run of the castle, from the stables to the scullery to the throne room. His bright blonde head is seen everywhere, zipping around with the energy of ten boys. He is well liked wherever he goes, but generally thought of by all as rather empty-headed (except for those adventurous tales he loves to dwell on), and castle folk high-born and low rarely bother to censor their conversation around him.

The rooms of Marian and Salima are one of the rare places he actually finds himself listened to.

Pleased by this attention, he rewards them nicely by sharing every juicy tidbit of gossip or plotting he ever comes into contact with (sometimes even going out of his way to seek more).

Salima, as attendant to Marian, is also allowed a similar freedom of movement (one denied a fine lady-in-waiting such as Marian), but finds that her presence, though she and Marian have been well established at Court for some time now, tends to shutter any uninhibited chatter, particularly among the servants. The servants who, like Tristan, find in her some reason for, if not terror, then suppressed fright. No doubt due to freakish and gruesome propaganda boogey-man tales brought to Court and shared among all of heathenish and cannibalistic-like practices of the peoples of the Holy Land.

It is a different kind of treatment than she is used to (fear as opposed to hostility and violence). It does make any request or spoken desire of hers receive immediate attention.

Marian and Salima sit with their sewing as Tristan occupies a hassock at Marian's feet, though he never sits still for long. He is more faithful, more often at her side than any pet. As she has puzzled out, his own lady mother is long-dead, and his lord father too busy for his son, sending him away to Court as a page (expected to advance to Squire in time) to learn the ways of Court and a life of politics and society. His presence here is as a grooming for his future.

What the boy finds in Marian and Salima's chamber is a shared aura of goodwill and a relaxed atmosphere closer to that of a home than the pomp and stuffiness of general castle life.

Though he would never say it aloud freely, his deepest hope, born of his lonely boy's heart, is that the Lady Matilda (Marian), as yet unmarried and unpromised, would linger a spinster long enough to someday entertain _his_ offer of matrimony. When he counts it up, he thinks sixteen (four years out) should be plenty old enough to take on a lady wife. Though of course, at 12, it is an unfocussed, puppy love-like desire, something to keep his heart, starved for parental (especially maternal) love, warm.

**Tristan:** [always ready with a story] Shall I tell you of the day Robin Hood met with the largest, strongest giant of a man in the entire world?

**Salima:** I do not recall this one. Is it new?

**Tristan:** I only just got it off one of the slop boys in the lower kitchens. Says he heard it two weeks ago from his cousin who heard it by a merchant in a tavern on the coast.

**Marian:** [bemused] And was his name Goliath?

**Tristan:** [seriously] I do not know the merchant's name, Lady.

**Marian:** [laughing gaily, in a bright mood] No, silly, [tousles his hair] the giant man.

**Tristan:** He is called, they say, '_Jean Le Petit_'. [rushing on] Or shall I sing the one of Robin Hood's gallant rescue of the Lady Sibyl? Or the one in which the Sheriff of Nottingham was left dangling upside down from the castle's ceiling? Humiliated for all to see? Or the chill tale [relishing it] of Carter, the heartless Templar-turned-assassin, whose loyalty brave Robin Hood won, convincing him to betray the Sheriff of Nottingham, and re-join the King in the Holy Land? But only after he nigh killed Robin Hood [breathless with the horror of that possibility]...

[both women speaking, overlapping simultaneously]

**Salima:** What was that you said? [she is unused to being this interested in Tristan's tales]

**Marian:** [with ulterior motives] Let us hear the one of the gentle Lady Sibyl, for it strikes me as romantic.

_Tristan's eyes spark. He is not used to such undivided attention._

Marian looks to Salima, curious. Salima meets her questioning eyes and, unlike herself, looks away, taking charge of the decision.

**Salima:** Tell us of this Templar. Carver was his name? [her left hand slightly trembles]

**Tristan:** No. [instructively] Car-ter.

_Marian has to stop herself from protesting to Salima that she already knows this story, as she (Marian) has lived it. But because such large sections of Salima's personal narrative have not been shared with Marian, Mrs. Robin Hood is left confused over Salima's uncharacteristic reaction to Tristan's tale-spinning._

**Tristan:** [getting into storyteller mode] My story takes place in Sherwood Forest, deep inside England.

**Marian:** [echoing this familiar opening to all of Tristan's tales] ...where it is always green...

**Tristan:** Where it is always green, and the winters mild, the people strong, and the bandits noble. Whereupon the seat of High Sheriff sat a man in Nottingham Castle so foul...

**Marian:** [again in pre-echo] ...so vile, so utterly unprincipled...

**Tristan:** ...so vile, so utterly unprincipled, that he would use the people's money-the King's own taxes-to hire a man skilled in death and torture, undefeated in battle, fearsome in his warlike ways-to kill The Lionheart's man, the peasant's champion. This Sheriff would hire him to dupe and kill Robin o' th' Wood, Robin Hood as he is known, Sherwood's own high lord.

_Tristan spins his tale as best he remembers it, inventing thrilling deeds for the gang where he has forgotten what comes next._

**Tristan:** [concluding] ...and so the redeemed Templar Carter, who had found in Robin Hood both enemy and friend, and who himself had presented the lifeless body of that fair outlaw to Nottingham's Sheriff-tricking him right well-departed England's fair coast for the Holy Land, a changed man, owing Robin Hood and his gang of merry revelers both his life and his new-found purpose.

_Somewhere along the way Salima has stopped sewing, stopped all movement, and is only staring at Tristan. Fortunately he is too absorbed in his telling to notice, or the full force of her contemplation of him would have scared him into silence. Marian, rather than watching Tristan or her sewing, has glued her gaze on Salima._

**Tristan:** [rushing on to the next thing, as is his way] [his voice alters away from that of dramatic storyteller] The Court is readying for travel. We are for the North, at invitation of the French king!

_Late for his duty serving the castle's resident knights at table, he races from the room, throwing the end of the sentence over his shoulder exuberantly as he unceremoniously exits their chambers._

But for all that his news was of great consequence, the ladies heard him not, each encompassed by their own thoughts and reverie.

It is Marian who breaks the silence.

**Marian:** I think it may be time that I heard your story, Salima, as you know mine more than well-enough, and have been living it with me these long times since Palestine.

**Salima:** Do you know this tale of this Sir Carter?

**Marian:** [showing some mellow amusement] I know the tale of Sir Carter, though it differs somewhat from our good Tristan's telling. I will gladly tell it you [intuitively] if I might expect you to attach a necessary coda or epilogue as may be needed to consider it whole.

**Salima:** [shakily (for her) regaining her composure] I think I may agree to that.

**Marian:** [connecting the dots] You were in the Holy Land. You came to nurse me by the King's direct command, you have said. It could not have been more than a day after Carter was killed. [she has only recently learned Carter's fate from Robin] You were both in the King's camp, then.

Marian's eyes take on a look of sympathetic hurt as her dot-connecting leads her to infer the nature of Salima and Carter's acquaintance, the unexpectedness of their permanent parting, and the shock Salima might feel at learning of Carter's dark past for what (Marian assumes) is possibly the first time.

And so, for the first time, Salima speaks her most candidly about her past-though toning down much of its violence and pain, knowing (or still fearing) the bulk of it too graphic for Marian. Not believing Marian too silly or innocent to know the full truth, but seeing Marian as a woman possessing the opposite of a harsh life; rather, living and confronting problems only the privileged few might have the luxury of facing.

A single mis-treatment or beating, a single rape or stillborn child, any one of these events by themselves she believes Marian could understand and process, but the bulk of them, the sorrowful whole of it, she has not yet met the person she might fully confide them in. Or perhaps she had. Perhaps _he_ might have been able the bear them all. She would never know.

So she edited/glossed over the bad, the ugly, the worse. And she spoke to Marian about Carter.

Still, with the tincture of disbelief in her tone. Could he have really been all that he professed to be? All that he had proven to her to be?

In his death he would always remain to her not-quite-real, too good to be true. Perhaps this tale of ruthless revenge and unwarranted slaughter would grow to temper her view of him, to show her that, as some part of her had already told her, he was no ordinary man.

Perhaps, in time, it would only make him seem all the more remarkable.

**TBC**


	33. The Best Place in the World to Be

**ENGLAND** - Robin and Much return to camp, both fearing its location may be compromised, but neither having any better idea where to go. Little John is not there. Feeling out of the loop about the activities of his own gang, Robin counsels Much to wait.

"John will come. We will not panic yet. He will not wish to lead anyone straight here," he says, reasonably. "And so he will take his time."

They have had it from Gwyn that Little John _was_ released, as Sir Clem had said-at the first sighting of Robin in Knighton.

"Very well," Much agrees begrudgingly to Robin's wait-and-see approach. "We will give him twelve hours. No more."

"Very well. Which of us shall take first watch?"

Much agrees to it, and Robin beds down, much like old times.

Three and a half hours into the first watch Robin is shown sleeping soundly as noisy forest underbrush indicates intruders, and in the low light of early night, Much catches himself an assailant.

"We are attacked!" Much cries out in alarm, waking Robin, but not quickly enough. We see it is Allan he has got the drop on, and Much's sword is at his neck. But his back is to Much. He could be anyone.

Too wary of the high-wrought gang member's blade to his throat-so close-to loudly or violently protest his identity (as one would also not startle one's high-strung mount), it is not Allan, but instead Luke's wife, Aislinn Scarlet, who takes her walking stick and deftly applies it to the back of Much's skull (he never saw it coming), herself ignorant of the importance of the man she has knocked unconscious. Much crumples.

All is silence.

And then confusion.

**Luke:** [checking on the identity of their attacker] Aislinn! You've skulled Much!

**Aislinn:** Who? [finger-pointing] He was about to slice Allan's throat!

_The undergrowth here is dense, the poor visibility adds to the bedlam._

**Robin:** [from camp] Allan? You are here? Declare yourselves!

_Surprisingly to all, it is a just-arrived Little John who quietly corrals both the newcomers and a coming-to Much into the camp proper._

**Little John:** [underselling it] I get captured for a moment and everyone turns idiot.

_A beat passes, and Little John shares arm to arm half-hugs with Allan and Much, and a hearty welcoming handshake with Luke. (Aislinn's head is down, she is feeling too sheepish to meet the half-giant's gaze.) Little John then walks to where Robin is and lifts him off the ground with a wild roar of pleasure to see him returned to Sherwood._

**Robin:** Alright, alright. [good-naturedly extricates himself from Little John's embrace] Let us all take a moment for introductions. Luke, I am glad to see you, but who have we here?

**Luke:** This is my wife, Aislinn.

_Robin lets bruised Much do the congratulating and wishes for marital bliss on behalf of the gang (as usual). Allan's absence upon their arrival at the camp is making more sense with every passing moment._

**Robin:** [inferring the Scarlets are here to join the gang] [to Allan] And what can _she_ do?

**Allan:** [not even bothering to list out her many other skills] [raises eyebrows, smug smile] _She_ can cook.

_Much pumps her hand with happiness at the news, any ill-will over his noggin forgotten._

**Robin:** [smiling his welcome, satisfied with the news] The pleasure, Mistress Scarlet [slight bow of the head, right hand lightly over heart], is all mine.

_Little John joyously slaps Aislinn on the back perhaps a little too hard, knocking her nearly off her feet, as his way of a how-d'ye-do._

There is much to tell on both sides, of their time apart, much to learn about the newest members, and much to conjecture about in the remarkable story of Robin's encounter with Sir Clem.

So much so that Allan and Little John forget to ask where Robin and Much have been, and by the time the question re-occurs to them, asking it would seem somehow prying and sullen, ruining the happiness of that night of reunions.

Robin is back, and appears fully restored to his former self. His violent night terrors have ceased, his concentration and even-temperedness seem to have returned, and though he is still often introspective, it no longer seems to haunt him in a destructive way.

Gone are the questions of whether he can be trusted, and the speculation that he is hiding something.

All appears to be right in the world, and Sherwood is again (for outlaws and once-hanged blacksmiths and their wives) the best place in the world to be.

* * *

**FRANCE -** As Tristan the page discovered, the Court of Queen Eleanor is indeed to travel north to join with the Court of France's Philip II, holidaying at the Northern city and port of Calais.

Not all are invited to attend upon the Queen at this highly politicized occasion. (Although King Philip fought with Richard in Crusade, unlike Richard he has returned to his country, and is rumored now to be thinking of throwing his lot in with Prince John.)

The Queen has made it clear that she will have Salima travel with her, but that Marian may decide herself whether to attend. (Eleanor rather likes the uniqueness of having a half-Saracen among her company. In addition to liking Salima personally, the Queen is not immune to the cachet of novelty Salima's presence brings with it.)

It is no surprise the Queen has not required Marian to attend on her, especially since Lady Huntingdon (known at Court as "Lady Matilda") seems to be falling tired and ill more frequently of late.

"Stop it, Salima," snapped Marian grouchily, as Salima tried to apply yet another blanket to the growing pile under which Marian rested on the chaise in their chambers' receiving area.

"And why should I?" Salima sniped back.

"I am not ill," Marian countered.

"You are not ill," Salima echoed.

"I am...I think. I believe," her voice trailed off. "Since Acre, my body has been so undependable and irregular..."

Salima is already to the conclusion, but will not steal the moment from Marian.

"I am pregnant." It is the first time Marian had allowed herself to complete the thought, to fully express it. (Surely, after her Season Two wound, a miracle without precedent!)

"Perhaps, nearly...five months? Can it be?" Her eyes shone with unshed tears, and her throat found it could not suppress a half-giggle.

"I doubt not. You have memorized the timeline since you last saw Sir Robin."

"What shall I do?" Marian's mind attacked the immediate problem. Other thoughts must be deferred. "Here I am known to be a maid!"

Salima did not try to hide her amusement. "I should hardly think you are the only 'maid' at Court to find herself in such a predicament."

"Do you suppose we must tell the Queen?"

"She should certainly not wish to hear such news second hand."

"But, we must keep it secret. This is," again, the unsuppressable half-giggle, "this is _Robin's_ child." Emotion swept over her. It seemed a much bigger moment declaring this than admitting to the pregnancy. _Robin's child. Robin's child_. It played like a merry lullaby in her head.

"I think you will find, in such circumstances, there are some things," Salima spoke from experience, "which can only be hidden for a limited time. No matter the effort expended on concealing them."

Marian's happiness, her giddy delight in the news that she is expecting is initially such that she can find no space in her mind for melancholia. Such a thing she had surely thought forever denied her after that day in the sun of Palestine. And although she does not (as Robin once did) encounter visions of her spouse so real she might speak to and interact with him, she does find herself speaking freely and often to the babe yet to come, as though he (or she) already stood before her.

In telling Queen Eleanor the news of the impending birth, Marian is then _ordered_ to travel with the Court to Calais. For now not only must the life of Marian be protected in secret, but also the tiny life (the future heir to Huntingdon?) now within her. Kept secret, as long as possible.

As Marian has become able to begin Court duties (and of course, participate in its intrigue), the Court in general has become suspicious of her arrival and treatment, and of the Queen's obvious favor, believing these attentions to be resultant of the fact she is King Richard's mistress. Rumors of unknown origin begin to circulate that she may even have been with His Highness in the Holy Land (hence her half-Saracen attendant).

Things worsen when it becomes obvious during a gown fitting for the upcoming trip north, that 'Lady Matilda' is pregnant, and that she appears far enough along that conception would have occurred prior to her joining the Court.

During this time, Marian finds herself desperate to communicate the news of her being with child to Robin. Salima, ever sensible, will have none of it. "Do you doubt he tarried even an hour's time upon receiving the messenger I sent when your condition stabilized? We barely had time to expect his coming ere he arrived in France! At the possibility of a child, would you not expect him to travel twice as fast?"

Marian knew what Salima would say next, knew it would be true. Knew it was at least part of the reason she wished to contact Robin.

"He would not stay away."

And there it was. They both knew it to be fact.

"Besides, you must remember," Salima thought to caution Marian, to help temper emotions she herself was having trouble curbing. "These things do not always work out." Salima banished further thoughts from her own past on the subject, hoping instead to counsel Marian unprejudiced. "You must think. Protect yourself, protect the child. And in doing so, _for now_, protect _him_."

After all, Marian is allowed no communication with Robin or her previous life by incontrovertible order of the Queen, who lets the mistress rumors flourish (and may herself have begun them). Her Highness believes Marian may benefit by any support or protection those wishing to back a child (even a known bastard) of the King might offer.

Additionally, it is no secret to anyone that Eleanor's greatest wish, equal in stature with her desire for his return from the Holy Land to rule his kingdoms, is for Richard's heir; a grandchild, and by that securing of the royal line (also _her_ royal line), laying-to-rest many political tensions, and bringing a new stability to matters of state.

**TBC**


	34. How's Your Norman French?

**ENGLAND -** Gongs and alerts go off at the Outlaw's Camp several hours before dawn. Mustering themselves out of bed and to the task at hand, they encounter a strange sight on the road: a large hulk of a man in a Holocaust cloak is astride one of Knighton's best draft horses (Bess, as was her name, Robin recalls). Doubtless, it would take the strength of such a mare to bear the man's weight, his bulk appearing such that he hardly seems human. Adding to the strangeness, he makes no effort to avoid capture. Once in the gang's custody he sweeps aside the hem of the cloak to reveal a second, smaller man interestingly strapped to him so that he might ride but not fall from the beast.

It is Sir Clem and his man Wad, riding the forest roads in search of Robin Hood.

Robin obliges them, agreeing to a visit, but not one that will bring them back to the secret camp.

It would seem that Clem is thought by all to be tucked safely abed back at Knighton House, but his need to contact Robin was far too dire to allow for anything but haste in finding his outlawed (and, he believes, widowed) brother-in-law. It is their first true face-to-face encounter since they met upon John's release.

Clem bears news of the Sheriff: in a week's time there is to be a man sent to attend on the holiday Court of France's Philip II. It is unclear what function the Sheriff's man will have. Spy? Assassin? Messenger? It is equally unclear whom he may be told to observe or contact.

In short order it is agreed upon by both Clem and Robin that this man will not be killed or waylaid for questioning, but followed, until his dirty purpose reveals itself.

Wad and Clem leave the forest as they arrived, on Bess' broad back. Instead of wishing Robin farewell, or bothering even with introductions to the rest of the gang (his noble hauteur getting in the way of his humanity again), Clem exits with the simple exclamation of how good it feels to ride, even such as it were. He and Wad disappear, the cloak as dense as the night still dark about them, and Sherwood a welcoming haunt to any that might see it as such.

Robin waits a beat as they depart, then turns to Allan and asks pointedly, "How's your Norman French?"

And so it is decided: Allan shall go to follow the Sheriff's man, journeying to Calais, France, and Philip II's Court.

He shall have to travel undercover, not so much because he might be recognized, but because no one can infiltrate such a place without a good reason to be there.

"I've got it! With a nose like that," Robin kids (after some reflection on the topic), "you're sure to make lovely chamber music."

Allan's cover will be that of a wandering minstrel, always admitted in abundance to any royal court.

It is only days before Robin 'borrows' a busted-up lute from a wealthy Sherwood traveler (though it was not busted-up until the brawl that ensued over the taking of it).

Aislinn, as Luke had told Allan, proved able to make a good repair of it, and it is not long after that Allan is heard plunking away on it, trying to learn the songs he has been assigned to complete his character: _Black is the Colour_, and _Tale of the True Loves_.

He is, all admit, truly terrible. It is not that his singing is officious-with his casual charm and way with the ladies, he can more that make up for any shortcomings of voice. It is rather that his lute skill is abysmal (as surely anyone's would be with only a week to learn).

* * *

Robin's ever scheme-devising mind overhears Aislinn one day attempting to help sort Allan's lute, and cannot stop himself from taking Luke aside.

**Robin:** [earnestly] I want Aislinn to go with Allan. It is too important a mission to lose our way in because he cannot seem to reconcile himself to a stringed instrument.

**Luke:** How can she go?

**Robin:** She will have to mask as a boy. His helper, perhaps?

**Luke:** [following along that line of thought, nods slowly] She can play to accompany him, hopefully compensate for some of his errors.

**Robin:** Yes. At the least she can continue to coach him for the journey's length until they land in Calais.

**Luke:** [genuinely puzzled] But why do you take me aside alone to ask this? Should not Aislinn be here as well?

**Robin:** [a line grown between his brows, his mouth goes tense] If it were me, in the position of sending my wi-sending Mar-with another man, to journey far from me, where I could not protect her, I would not want... [quickly running it together] Her to go. [sighs and gathers himself so he may continue more casually] And I am still unconvinced as to Aislinn's contentment with our life of outlawry.

**Luke:** [half-chuckling] Robin, rest yourself. I have rarely seen her as happy as she has been here in Sherwood. Certainly not as Aislinn _Smith_ of the Scarborough forge. There is a bit of a wanderer in her, after all, a longing for the vagabond life. Her Da himself traveled far and yon as a troubadour. 'Tis how she came to be so deep into England from the Eireann coast. [squints a look to the side, where Robin stands] If it were not out of line, Robin, I'd say that your being unconvinced is more of your own making than hers. [waits to be answered] So let us ask her what she will rather do: stay here and cook for us, or set out upon an adventure.

_Aislinn quickly agrees to the plan, announcing she will take her bodhrn (drum) in an effort to drown out Allan's poor plucking._

Luke insists on being the one to cut her hair (to cement her portrayal of a young boy). It is with the finality of this action he realizes that perhaps both he and Aislinn have under-thought the upcoming venture into France. Perhaps it is not quite the lark they have both been treating it as.

The no-going-back moment of her hair being shorn from her head, falling heavily around her onto the forest floor hits both husband and wife much harder than they had expected.

**Luke:** [Holding her in his arms] Do you still want to go?

**Aislinn:** [somewhat timidly] If I say yes will you believe I love you any less today than I ever have?

**Luke:** [with confidence] _No_. I will only believe that the satisfaction of being of use, of being part of something that matters, is the right of any person. I take no pride in my actions or myself, but I take _much_ pride in your courage, and your willingness to risk much for what is right.

_They kiss awhile._

**Luke:** I only ask, as my mother and father were taken from me, and my brother now so distant: return to me? That we can share the rest of this grand adventure together?

**Aislinn:** [exhales] That is easily done. [tears in eyes] For who else would have me after such a shearing?

_She cries a little for her vanity. For leaving her young husband. For the excitement she feels within her over what is to come._

* * *

Before the duo set out on the road, Robin takes Luke aside.

**Robin:** [all seriousness] Speak with Allan. Be sure he knows that you are reconciled to this, and that you hold over him no doubt or expectation in the keeping of her safe. Be it clear to all of us: we know not what the risks they encounter may be. We each can only do what we can do. Assure him that you know he will do all he can for her at any moment. I will not have him depart here uncertain of your feelings in the matter, or have him unduly indebted to you upon his return.

_Robin says this because; conking Much with her walking stick notwithstanding, Aislinn is the only member of the gang that does not know, and has not been taught, to fight. Robin wishes to preemptively strike against any sour grapes or bad feelings coming to bear upon the two buskers' return._

Likewise, he takes Allan aside before they make for the road. As usual, Allan is acting (and feeling) very cavalier about the mission to come.

**Robin:** [instructively] Recognize that what you are taking with you today is that man's [he points to Luke in the distance, stealing a last moment with Aislinn] whole world. As I recognize that I am staying here with that woman's [points again] whole world. Be as faithful to her, and sacrifice as much to her as you would [holds up his tag from around his neck] to me. [tone change] And for all of that, get back to Sherwood as soon as can be. I will not rest peacefully until you are both returned.

**Allan:** [heartily amused with himself] And we know how hard that can be on Much.

**Much: **[off-camera] I heard that! I heard my name!

**TBC**


	35. The Nature of Love and a Good Brisket

**ENGLAND -** Allan-A-Dale and Aislinn Scarlet have left to intercept the path of the Sheriff's man, and the outlaws' camp is quiet for a moment before the next move in the unfolding chess match against the Sheriff and Gisborne.

Luke has sought out a moment alone with Robin, and together they have been silent, their interior, unshared musings on separation from their wives surprisingly similar.

**Luke:** [gestures to Robin's wrist] I should like to make one such as that of Aislinn's locks.

_He is not as fastidious about avoiding the subject of Marian as those in the gang who were witness to her gruesome passing._

**Luke:** Could you show me how?

**Robin:** [a bit startled, as though out of a dream. He had forgotten Luke was there] Ahh, it was already woven for a plait when Marian tied-[stops, does not correct himself immediately. Lets the words hang between them, seeping into the air until they become part of Sherwood's atmosphere]

_When he continues speaking, still not backtracking on what he has said, he sticks to the truth, if being somewhat inexact in his word choice._

**Robin:** [continuing] -when it was cut and tied together with this thong. Myself, I do not know how to make the plait.

_Robin feels bleak at having sent away Luke's wife, and now at being unable to help him fashion a wanted remembrance of her._

**Robin:** [as if to console Luke over his own lack of help] Perhaps the weaver-woman on the road to Bonchurch Lodge may help you, Old Tara as is her name. [considers] She is friendly to the gang.

**Luke:** [onto a new topic] Let me thank you now, Robin, for what you have given us, Aislinn and myself, before what is to come might get in the way of such thanks. It is good to be in the forest-

**Robin:** [good-naturedly interrupts. He has had enough gratitude] It is good to once again be stealing sacks of flour for the poor?

**Luke:** [smiles with the memory] It is good to fight for Robin Hood...and King Richard.

* * *

**Calais, FRANCE, Court of Philip II -** Queen Eleanor and her retinue of attendants have arrived, and the holiday atmosphere has hit fever pitch.

Marian has found herself to be almost 'wooed' by the French king, as he seems determined to discover if the child she carries is truly Richard's. A simple, "yes" and she feels as though she has the power to change history-at least for the present moment.

But Eleanor refuses to allow outright assertions in the matter, believing obfuscation and misdirection to be better wielded in the cause of keeping Prince John and Philip apart. And in keeping Philip in line with his previous comradeship with Richard.

The attentions paid Marian and her ever-expanding waistline by Philip come almost daily, like scenes in an on-going mating dance. It does not hurt matters that Philip finds himself also captivated by her company.

As is another visitor to the Court: Season Two, Episode Two's Count Friedrich Betrand Otto von Wittersburg of the German duchy of Bavaria has brought a generous money chest and his aggressive gaming appetite for risk to Calais, looking for excitement, but hardly expecting to find Marian of Knighton under an assumed name and glowing expectantly with child.

"My lady," he greeted her as she occupied the arm of the King (too suave to reveal her here secret identity). You are somewhat changed since last we met." It was literally the _mother_ of all understatements.

**Marian:** Quite happily so, I must confess.

**King Philip:** Ah, but are you disposed to _confess_ any more to us this day, Lady Matilda?

**Marian:** No, your Highness. I believe I will keep any other confessions for my next trip to shrive.

_The King is called away, leaving Marian and the Count alone._

**Count Booby:** [charmed to see her, but curious] Are you now, Lady Marian, doxy to the French King? I wonder, is there nothing you cannot accomplish if given time-and a suitably stimulating dress?

**Marian:** No, Philip believes I carry the child of King Richard.

**Count Booby:** [impressed, but far from displeased] And do you?

**Marian:** The Queen has forbade me speak on the subject.

**Count Booby:** Fascinating! What risk, what shocking odds you play. But, is the _jeu_ winnable?

**Marian:** Does it matter so much to you?

**Count Booby:** [with his typical relish] It would certainly be an exciting position to find oneself in. Either way, danger would surely ensue. [pauses a moment to think] I know many nobles, royals, even, who would pay handsomely for such information, or to have you "delivered" to them.

**Marian:** [not taking it seriously] My, but you are well-connected.

**Count Booby:** But, in the end, the whole affair would be politically fraught. Which is on the whole tedious. And I have never cared much for tedium. [pauses a moment to think] But if you find the adventure ever overwhelms the tedium, you will find, I think, that Bavaria is the place for you. There is a lovely, yet cozy chateau recently vacated by a mistress of my father's (Finally she has died!). It is in need of a new occupant.

**Marian:** [bemused at his propositioning her] So you invite me in order to bed me?

**Count Booby:** Well, as the father of your child seems to be, hmm, in absentia-and your considerable beauty and thirst for danger obviously not diminished by your blossoming figure-

_Marian's expression shoots down his indecent proposal._

**Count Booby:** Ah, you have me. You may have the house at your disposal, no strings attached. But I should like leave, as landlord to visit you there.

**Marian:** It is a very kind offer. I shall remember it. And you. [eagerly] Now, share with me all the excitement you have encountered since last I met you.

* * *

**ENGLAND -** At Allan's suggestion, as the Sheriff's man leaves for Dover, and then on to Calais, Robin and Company engage Gisborne and his men elsewhere, allowing the Sheriff a sense of 'I-love-it-when-a-plan-comes-together-ness', believing his plans (whatever they may be) for this man still secret from all who might choose to oppose them.

As Robin and Gisborne tangle with one another, upon seeing the bracelet of Marian's hair, and intuiting what it is, Gisborne slices it neatly from Robin's wrist with his sword (leaving a smarting cut-mark in its place) and claims it for his own. So energized is he by this victory, he fails to feel annoyance at that day being overall bested by Hood and the Sherwood Lads.

Upon Marian's death at his hand, rather than despising her for what she proved in truth to be to him in the end, his somewhat broken mind (bruised and battered from the experience) has re-styled her into being much as he believed her to be on the eve of their wedding in his heart to heart with Locksley's Thornton.

In the coming days he will cut some of his own hair and re-plait the token-joining his with Marian's. It is to become more sacred to him than a piece of the True Cross.

Robin, conversely, is left only with Gisborne's cut to recall his once-cherished touchstone to the living Marian.

* * *

**Adjacent woods near the Inn at Dover, ENGLAND -** As the Sheriff's man stops in to quaff ale before the crossing to Calais, Allan and Aislinn make the final preparations for their charade. Allan considers shaving himself clean (as minstrels generally are), but Aislinn waves him off the idea.

**Aislinn:** Perhaps your being so mustachioed will not make my own face being so very bare stand out.

**Allan:** That's not a bad thought, that. Well, then, [going over checklist in his mind] have you bound your bosoms?

**Aislinn:** [flatly] The fact that you have to ask is a little disconcerting.

**Allan:** Yeah, well, sorry, there.

**Aislinn:** Never thought I'd have a moment to feel glad I'm nearly flat as a board.

**Allan:** Well, [oddly knowing] havin' yer children'll fix that right enough. [trying to make up for slighting her figure] Until then, when we get back I can show you how to help yourself [waves to the area with his hand] up there.

_Aislinn shoots him a 'that's a queerish things for you to say' look._

**Allan:** [in his defense] Been in tavern's me whole life, ain't I? You learn more'n a few things about illusion and sleight of hand.

**Aislinn:** Your whole life?

_Allan moves 360 degrees around her, convincingly arranging her clothing, her hair, even ordering her to rough up her fingernails and cuticles for appearances' sake._

**Allan:** [mutters to self] You're too pretty a boy, still. Can't put too ridiculous a face on it. Your boyishness has to come out somewhere. [Tears a small run in her hosen.] Allan: [satisfied, now speaking to her] There! Repair that less-than-perfect. [giving it a backstory] You got that climbing a tree. Now _that's_ something boys do.

**Aislinn:** But ladies like a soft-handed, bare-faced minstrel, gently spoken.

**Allan:** Aye, that they do, but it ain't the ladies we have to convince. 'Tis the lords, _Asher_. That's what we'll call you by: Asher. You'll be my pupil, my unofficial apprentice. It is to keep the lords from smelling a fake that we must 'boyo' you up.

**Aislinn:** [still insecure about the hair, nothing more devious in her mind] Did you say I was pretty?

**Allan:** [not missing a beat, as though he's planned this speech] Look, _Asher_, I'm a straight talker, so I'm gonna tell you now: It's never gonna happen. When I say; 'it's cold tonight, let's sleep back to back'. That's what I mean, and that's what it's going to be.

_Aislinn begins to hold in a smile as she sees where this preemptive rejection is going._

**Allan:** Don't worry for me [as if she were], I'll get mine. We'll meet people along the way, we'll play the occasional tavern or ale house. I'll get mine. You? You'll have to wait for yours. Until we get back. [warns] If necessary, I'll see that you have to wait. I'll not have you out sinnin' against our Lukey. [changes tone] I think of you as my little sister.

**Aislinn:** [quietly correcting him per her disguise] Brother.

**Allan:** Though I ain't got no little sister [grins casually] as I know of.

**Aislinn:** What? Are you not in contact with your family?

**Allan:** [matter-of-factly] Ah, well, my mum was a hard-time good-time girl. You know what that is?

**Aislinn:** I can guess.

_She begins to inexpertly darn her now-removed hosen, per his instruction._

**Allan:** My first memories are of the tavern where she worked, being looked after by one of the other girls when she was with a paying customer [checks to see if she is shocked]

_She is not._

**Aislinn:** So you mean to say you do not know your father?

**Allan:** Story was that it was his death what began the hard times. Story was that they were proper married. But may be all that was a story: past decency to hang on to, to try and overcome present humiliation. Dunno. Got four half-brothers from my mum: Aidan, Aaron, Owen and Eamon. Got a fifth one, hanged by the Sheriff.

_In her sloppy darning, stabs her hand with the needle. He gestures her to blot the blood with the hosen, perfecting its bona fide appearance._

**Aislinn:** And your mum?

**Allan:** [without negative emotion, rather factually] Passed on. She were an awfully pretty woman though. Even at the end. [stands to stretch from where he has been sitting] Even if I do say so myself.

**Aislinn:** [in wonderment] You always do put such a bright face on things.

**Allan:** Well, Mum used to always say, 'Life is full of enough grief'.

**Aislinn:** So it was a good life?

**Allan:** [lightly snorts] It was not a terrible life (I have since seen far worse), but I would wish it on no one. But neither would I judge one who has taken to it.

**Aislinn:** [reflecting] I thought on it once.

**Allan:** [disbelieving] What, when you were seven?

**Aislinn:** No, before Luke. He is not my first husband.

**Allan:** [bewildered] So a true cradle-robber was that one?

**Aislinn:** I was given by my dead father's brother to the Scarborough blacksmith in marriage (to settle a debt) when I was fourteen. He was widowed, with children to raise. It was not an-intimate-marriage, you understand. I cooked, cleaned, sewed and minded the children, and took on the brunt of their father's occasional anger and bouts of drinking for them. I wanted to run. Tavern slut in another town where I was not known seemed the only career path opened to me.

**Allan:** [genuinely curious-he had not expected this] So what happened?

**Aislinn:** Luke was apprenticed to him at the forge.

**Allan:** [clueless] And?

**Aislinn:** [as if one sentence explains it all] I saw Luke. I fell in love. You don't believe in love at first sight?

**Allan:** [answers with a question] Can you see something you're not looking for? Seems to me you can't love something you're entirely ignorant of. Can't know you love a good brisket until you've tasted it. Seems to make more sense knowing something before loving it.

**Aislinn:** [shrugs, not contesting his view] My husband died unexpectedly. His extended family took in the children, and along with my widow's portion, Luke and I were able to bid on and buy the forge.

**Allan:** So you knew you loved him at first sight?

**Aislinn:** Aye. I did. And I have never wavered from that moment to this.

**Allan:** [startled by the confidence and resolve in her story, in her complete certainty of self. So, he jokes] [pointing] You. Are dangerous. I shall not turn my back on you.

* * *

**FRANCE - Court of Philip II -** Count Friedrich the Booby is at Court (and at Philip's gaming tables) for perhaps a month, then is recalled to Bavaria on matters relating to his lands and estates. Marian is sorry to see him go.

She is approaching her seventh month and soon will be confined to chambers until the child's birth, a confinement she dreads most especially after her confining convalescence in France, that lonely experience still fresh in her memory.

She dreams often of the Nightwatchman. Always she encounters him in a village. The moon is high, but when he removes his mask, the face revealed (half-hidden in the shadows) is one she knows not. It is surely not her own.

She awakens from these dreams sour and out-of-sorts, feeling more sharply than ever her current sidelined uselessness.

"Perhaps it is the child's face you see," Salima attempts to encourage her. "Carrying out his mother's legacy."

"Don't be ridiculous," was as far as Marian got in reply, censoring herself before she could add; "there will be no need for Robin Hood or the Nightwatchman in my child's adult life!" though it was very much her particular hope.

Besides, she rather thought the child would prove a girl.

"How delightful," she gloated, "were it to be a girl! Robin, who has charmed far too many a lass in his day might find himself at the mercy of one, wrapped around a wee girl babe's finger."

"Men prefer boys and heirs," came Salima's predictable reply. "Certainly this holds true in England as well as elsewhere."

"Salima, you are very dour," Marian pouted on her. "I command you," (though she had no power to do so), "to stop it. You must say only bright, charming things for the next quarter hour!"

"The sooner you are delivered and free of this couch," Salima replied, "say I charmingly, the better!"

Having had a bit too much of her twitterpated with happiness charge, she went in search of some distraction for Marian. Perhaps she could find Tristan free of his kitchen duties and willing to sit with the bubbly Lady Matilda. Her own nerves, straining with jumbled emotions could take no more for now. She felt a strong pull to join Marian in her every delight over the coming child, but Salima's own history and experience cut that choice out from under her. She could do nothing with her whole heart.

She feared for the life of this miracle child, which she herself longed to hold. She feared for the heart of Marian should it not live. And feared for herself and what grim path she would be sent down should Marian not live (not to mention the loss of her best and only true friend on earth). And she feared greatly (for perhaps she understood it better) for this dangerous game they formed the central conundrum of-this riddle of parentage Queen Eleanor so aggressively promoted.

Only today Salima had heard the newest (completely unsubstantiated) rumor: that Richard would hold off on claiming to have fathered the child, waiting for its healthy delivery. If it were a boy, he would own it for an heir, despite his wife, Berengaria, and her thus-far barren womb. If it were a girl he would set it up handsomely in perpetuity for the future; for alliances and fealty between countries could still be well-sealed through a marriage, even to a king's bastard daughter.

But what, Salima wondered, would be done to a child unmasked as Robin Hood's? And to the mother believed (though not of her own accord) to have falsely put it forward to have been sired by the King?

Salima did not doubt for a moment that she and Marian, (and the child) were alone. Without Richard here in body to protect them (assuming, in his absent way, the King still recalled the path he had set them on), they had not a hope in the world for any assistance the moment the truth broke. And Salima knew (though she had never heard the phrase) that though the truth _might_ set one free, it sent just as many to their death, or on a mad run for their very lives.

**TBC**


	36. Quick fingers and penny whistles

_Please see Author's Profile for notes and disclaimers up to and including this section._

* * *

We'll take a rest here, briefly, from spying on Sherwood, where things continue as we might expect, full of small victories and disheartening set-backs, the occasional musing on those of the gang (and for Robin, Marian) now incommunicado, at their task in France. [So we'll give Jonas a week or so off, without him having to suffer a broken foot to earn it.]

Luke is a nice addition to things, and his skills at a forge (as well as his wood-skills, learned from his father) have come in handy. Little John's wear-and-tear from his time of hard-use at Knighton have begun to heal nicely, and Sir Clem, though not risking riding out into the forest again, continues in secret to regain strength and mobility, and is believed (in spirit, if not in action) by Robin to be in harmony with the outlaws' cause. Publicly his traitor's mask remains in place for the Sheriff and all others to see.

Guy treasures his prized bracelet, growing more gaunt as the days go by, his interest waning in all things not related to Robin Hood.

The Sheriff plots, almost forgetting to oppress the peasantry such is his fixation on the news he expects any day from his man sent to Calais.

[As I have explained in sections prior, the sum of this telling is meant to span an entire season. But, due to my personal time constraints, I have not outlined each of 13 tussles and A-plots for the Sherwood gang. Feel free to do so on your own, in your free time. I should be glad to read them in mine. ;) We, however, are bound for France, where things are really heating up.]

* * *

**FRANCE - The road to King Philip's castle -** For amusement, and to pass the time on their journey, Allan has been giving Aislinn (newly-christened Asher, whom he has quickly devolved into calling just, 'Ash') lessons in pick-pocketry. She has decided for him that his new moniker will be 'Llanio'.

**Allan:** Now, when you're lifting summat sharp off a gent, like a blade...[shows her his favorite, Robin-given dagger]

**Aislinn:** [perplexed, muses to herself] You really would think such nimble fingers would make quick work of lute playing...

**Allan:** [replaces the blade within one of the many interior pockets of his vest][smarting at her diminution of his lute skill] Oi! You're _supposed_ to be paying attention.

**Aislinn:** [reaching in his vest, trying to locate the dagger by feel][protests] I _am_! That was a pretty scoring on the blade [her knowledge of forge-craft coming out], can I see it? I wonder how it was done? [her hand erroneously withdraws a shiny silver pennywhistle] What's this? Cheating on the lute, now, are you?

**Allan:** Naw, but give us a listen.

_Allan plays sharply, sprightly, and is actually very good._

**Aislinn:** [genuinely] That's great, but...the whole point is..._you're_ the singer. You can't sing _and_ blow.

**Allan:** [reflectively] Mind you, I did once know this girl...

**Aislinn:** [used to his laddish segues by now] Of course you did.

**Allan:** [looking for a way to make this possible] I know! We'll put it about that you're, what's the word? _Castrati_. That way I can play a bit and you can sing one or two. Know any good ones?

**Aislinn:** I know a hundred plus two. I do not think Asher will thank you for gelding him with such glee, [smiles] but I, surely I do.

_She has wanted to be able to do some of the singing, has longed for it since first hearing of their job._

**Allan:** [chuffed] I've started writing something of my own. It'll make good use of your drum, I think. Wanna hear a bit of it?

**Aislinn:** [skeptically] Just not with the lute, _please._

* * *

Allan and Aislinn have auditioned and (miraculously), with the help of Allan's force-of-personality and some wheel-greasing gold, been admitted, for indefinite length of time, into the combined holiday courts of Philip II of France and England's Queen Mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine.

They will be fed and housed in return for their services, and given, for the most part, free run of the castle and grounds.

Allan predictably fronts as though he had no doubt about that eventuality. Aislinn breathes a (more realistic) sigh of deep relief.

The Sheriff's man has proven none too hardy for travel, and became seriously sickened on the crossing (perhaps he should have quaffed less ale immediately prior). Pleased by this development, and always preferring the upper hand, Allan, eager to make use of this delay in their nemesis' arrival moves them in to the castle immediately.

He additionally pays several female "dockworkers" he finds to take the Sheriff's chap and 'nurse him back to health' (i.e. waylay him indefinitely at their local house of ill-repute). The "workers", their chemises warmed by Allan's Sherwood gold, and their hearts (or something _like_ their hearts) charmed by his smile, are only too happy to oblige. Allan and Aislinn celebrate their first small victory by working to establish themselves at Court before the spy/messenger/assassin's eventual arrival.

They are surprised to learn of the addition of Eleanor and the Aquitaine Court, and uncertain what her presence here might mean for the cause of King Richard; whether it bodes well or ill.

Several days pass as they become acquainted with the castle and staff, and get to know by sight the seemingly endless number of visiting nobility.

It does not take long before both manage to befriend the page Tristan, perhaps the best guide to such things in the castle.

**SCENE -** Kitchens. Allan and Tristan have just finished their suppers. Soon Tristan will have to leave to wait on the knights' tables in the Great Hall, and Allan will be expected to set up in the Great Hall (or a nearby spot) to play (as will some twenty-five or so other balladeers currently housed at the castle employed as entertainment).

Allan and Tristan have been acquainted for some time, and Tristan has not stinted on carrying tales of his new minstrel friends to Salima and Marian in the castle-proper.

As he would with any new trouvre-type, Tristan is pumping Allan for information on his favorite subject: Robin Hood. Allan, of course, must not risk his cover, but feels confidant admitting he has _some_ knowledge of the growing-ever-more notorious outlaw.

**Allan:** Well, first things first, he's definitely not as tall as they say.

**Tristan:** [too starry-eyed over discussing Robin to even feel dismay over Allan's comment] Who would you say is the best man among his band? The giant Jean Le Petit? Wild Will Scarlet-hanged but yet living-expert with his axe?

**Allan:** [feeling satisfied from a good meal, and perhaps a bit homesick] Yeah, well, his true right-hand man, loyalest of the loyal's gotta be Much, innit?

**Tristan:** [had been waiting with bated breath][puzzled, but the rapt expression not yet gone from his face] Who?

**Allan:** Much. [checks Tristan's blank response] You mean to tell me you haven't heard [making it up on the spot] of the tale of Much [further adlibbing] the Miller's Son?

_Tristan violently shakes his head, 'no'._

**Allan:** [lying through his teeth, flying by the seat of his pants] How he left a good job in the city? Workin' for the man every night and day? How he never got a minute of sleep...bravely distinguishing himself on Crusade? [he has Tristan in the palm of his hand] How the Sheriff of Nottingham personally gifted Much the lodge and fields at Bonchurch in an effort to break his unwavering loyalty to Robin Hood?

_Tristan again shakes his head, 'no'._

**Allan:** [affecting an air of casual indifference, reclines against the wall where he's seated on a bench and allows himself a casual stretch] Well, I don't know what kind of troubadours you employ here, but I can say your ignorance on the matter-through no fault of your own-does not impress me very much. Anyhow, I don't recall the full lyrics just now. I shall have to consult with Ash and get...back...

_Just then, Salima, coming to get Marian a tray from the kitchens (where she would personally oversee its making) passes near enough by them to come into Allan's direct line of sight._

**Allan:** [not finishing his earlier sentence] Who is that?

**Tristan:** [slight shiver enters his voice. He is only ever fully comfortable around Salima when Marian is present] The Lady Salima. [spoken as though he said, 'the witch-woman Vampira']

**Allan:** She is-

**Tristan:** [incorrectly intuiting that Allan finds her physically repulsive] She is half-Saracen. [echoes belief/fear of the castle servants that she is all Saracen] So _she_ says. Her looks are thought to be...quite [relishes the word] repellent. [curiously] In your travels have you ever seen anything to match them?

**Allan:** [smirking his disbelief] Repellent?

Allan, as almost at any time, but even more so when on a job, saw the world through several filters simultaneously: grifter, thief, outlaw, and man (though not always necessarily in that order). It was just such filters that kept him alive and free. For example: the grifter saw people for what they were, rather than as they wished to appear; the thief saw any mark's greatest weaknesses and their secrets; the outlaw saw the best way to exit any situation, or saw a myriad of ways in which any situation might turn unfortunate for his interests; and the man, he saw the possibilities of pleasure (of many, and different, kinds) and happiness, and often set the other filters in search of acquiring such (whether it be food, shelter, safety, or sexual gratification).

What Allan saw before him in the kitchens was this: The Lady Salima stood slightly taller than those (even the serving men) around her, and the heavily embroidered burgundy-colored bliaut she wore did far less to conceal her striking figure than did the shielding garments commonly worn by women in the country of her birth.

Her breasts and hips added tempting shape to the shoulder-to-floor garment, cinched compellingly, wrapped twice about the waist and knotted in front of her abdomen with a well-tied scarf. This silken girdle managed to hug to the top rise of her bum, somewhat, as the long ends of the scarf billowed out with her movements, like a curtain falling among her skirts below her waist and above her leg. It put him (and no doubt others) in mind of what one might find concealed behind the fabrics.

Unlike the other women of her age surrounding her here in Philip's kitchens, her head went uncovered without veil or wimple, or even coif; most likely she was unmarried. Her hair was caught up in golden cord-threaded buns on either side of her head, from each of those hanging heavy in a braid-thick as the ropes that raised the drawbridge, black as the color of tar, without highlight or lowlight; only one deep, inky color. She wore a narrow (no thicker than her smallest finger) gold circlet about her forehead.

Her arms (undoubtedly like her unseen legs) were long inside trumpet-flared sleeves, and wielded with grace. Her hands were expressive and unmistakably feminine. And her face, this visage Tristan had been lead to believe was sub-human; it completed a fantasy come to vivid life. Surprisingly (as Tristan and others among the servants appeared to be unable to see it), several of her facial features were decidedly European. Her eyes were a rare clear and unmuddied green, like expensive glass beads, meant only for sale to the nobility, Allan had seen once at a summer faire.

To sum her up as repellant? Mystifying. What he saw was a woman whose equal he had yet to encounter, despite his having more than a passing interest in the feminine form, despite his having had more than a fleeting experience with all shapes thereof.

**Allan:** [trying to sort the truth out for Tristan] It is only that her skin is different, as she is from Palestine.

_His mind filled in the fact that she would be darker still than her current barley beer complexion, were she to be more frequently outdoors._

**Tristan:** [tired of the topic of Salima] And you have been to Palestine in your travels? To see many like her? For she attends at the Lionheart's command, it is said, on my Lady Matilda.

**Allan:** [off-handedly, absently giving away more than he perhaps should] I have seen the Holy Land.

_Salima arrives unexpectedly to join their chat._

**Salima:** [doubtful] A crusading jongleur? A religious pilgrim bard? [for she already knows much of Allan from Tristan's tale-carrying]

**Allan:** [startled by the subject of their conversation (and of his private contemplation) coming so suddenly to confront them] Well, not exactly.

_Seeing to propriety, Tristan introduces the two and excuses himself to his further chores._

Salima waits for Marian's tray to be completed, sitting at the long trestle table near Allan, and eating the occasional morsel from the food set out, as she wants it.

**Salima:** [setting out to quiz him, and his motives] [conversationally] As I understand it from Tristan, you are not a very ambitious musician.

**Allan:** [as though he has not heard her, inclining his head] How's that?

**Salima:** You spend all of your time here in the lower kitchens. It is hardly the place to earn gold, or inspire a noble's patronage. For that matter [she referenced their bustling, noisy surroundings], it his hardly the place to sing and be heard. [arriving at the meat of it] If I did not know better, I should suspect you for a spy, or [cushioning her accusation by back-pedaling], are you trying to learn how to...

**Allan:** Make a pudding?

**Salima:** Or are you in love with one of the scullery maids?

**Allan:** Yeah. [grabs on to the idea] [thumb-points to a pretty girl, emptying a pot by the fires] That's my Nell.

**Salima:** [she cannot yet tell if Allan is a spy or simply a lazy lothario][dryly] Her name is Brigid.

**Allan:** [not missing a beat] Yeah, well, Nell's my pet name for her. [catches Brigid's eye, waves and smiles, makes slight 'kissy' face.]

_Brigid, a somewhat ruddy-faced, pleasantly stout lass (quite pretty) is confused, but flattered. She blushes and looks away._

**Allan:** I'm not tryin' to be funny, but if _I_ didn't know better, my lady, I'd have _you_ out for a spy.

**Salima:** Because of my origins?

**Allan:** [genuinely not having thought of that, he's so very used to D'Jaq] [covering] Well, there's that, to be sure, but as I hear it you are attendant on a certain lady who claims to carry the seed of our great King. In that precarious of a position; half his kingdom wanting her and the child dead, the other half wanting the child, anyone concerned would, of necessity, turn spy. [gestures to Marian's (though of course he doesn't know it's hers) tray, nearly ready] I see you monitor the preparation of her meals, ensuring they are not poisoned.

**Salima:** [accepting the tray to leave, without denying his astute observations] Well, jongleur, we shall no doubt cross paths again, as I am to the lower kitchens several times a day, and you seem to have taken up residence here...with your beloved Nell. [her eyes spark, baiting him, she has always liked a riddle] Perhaps some time I might even have the pleasure of hearing you sing.

As she swept away, Allan found that he felt, atypically, somewhat breathless.

**TBC**


	37. Not on those days

**SCENE -** Allan and Aislinn (known here as Asher) eat in the kitchens, at the trestle table. In private they are discussing various parts of their day, and their ongoing reconnaissance of the castle. (Allan believes the best places for private conversations are also the busiest places; as those around are too busy to notice, and hardly expect any type of subterfuge to be taking place so out in the open.)

The Sheriff's man has yet to arrive on site.

**Aislinn:** I have not yet encountered the Lady Salima one-on-one. If, as is commonly put about, Lady Matilda, the King's mistress, whom she attends, is half as fine-looking, and only a quarter as vivacious as reported, what a striking pair they must make. [tears meat from off the bone, eats it] Have you ever known any great ladies, Allan?

_They are alone for the moment, so she may risk his real name._

**Allan:** [In this environment not hazarding any particulars] I knew a Lady once [meaning Marian]. She was not very much what one was taught to expect of the female aristocracy.

_His jaw felt a dull ache at the memory of her subverting his expectations, and he held back an instinctual checking for his sword at his side, though of course, masking as a minstrel, there was none there._

**Allan:** Anyhow, Ash, I'm sure this Lady Matilda of the King's is all milk-sop whiteness and gentility. We probably pass fifty just like her every day, have them eatin' out of our hands for more boring, boring tales of courtly love.

**Aislinn:** Well, still, you would think there must be _something_ adventurous about her. It is said they met while in the Holy Land. _That_ can't have been all rose petals and lavender.

**Allan:** [deep into noshing on roasted boar's leg] 'Spose any chit'd go far to bed a king.

**Aislinn:** [herself not immune to the romance of the manufactured tales about Marian and the Lionheart] Bed him? But not win him?

**Allan:** [cautions] Ah, but you forget. She can't win him. He's wed already, i'nt he?

**Aislinn:** [her soft heart sympathetic to Lady Matilda's plight] Well, she will have the child, at least. And the memories.

**Allan:** Whoa, now. Hold up here, Ash. [bursting her bubble][gestures at her with leg bone] Would be nuffin' for Richard to take charge of the child and give it for raising to Berengaria, wot is his wife. As you seem to keep forgetting. [shakes head] I knew I should have to keep my eye on you. Your head's gotten soft and full of the tarradiddle in the songs these lazy nobles and love-starved ladies request. And you were hardly immune to them before, with your ideas about love and first sight and what. [without harshness] Get a grip, man.

**Aislinn:** You make a poor wandering poet, you know. You sound as unsympathetic as Tristan's imitation of the Lady Salima.

**Allan:** [genuinely unsure] I don't think I like her.

**Aislinn:** [perplexed] Why should you?

_Before he can give answer, Tristan arrives, looking for them. The Lady Matilda will have a bard come to her chambers to entertain her in her confinement. There is gold in it for the one who answers her request. Tristan has brought the opportunity to them first._

Allan pushes back the bench he is sitting on, wiping his boar-greasy hands on the back of his breeches before Tristan waves him off.

**Tristan:** [instructively] You may not go, Llanio. Men are not allowed to see my lady. If anyone goes it must be Asher, for he is...[trying to be polite about it]

**Aislinn:** [bluntly] Gelded.

**Tristan:** [using the nicer term] An eunuch. And therefore can cause my Lady no trouble.

**Allan:** [wryly] In her condition how could she get in much more trouble?

_They turn to go._

**Allan:** [shouting to be heard over the noise of the kitchens] And take care not to listen to that drivel you'll be singing, Ash! Or I shall have to pour sealing wax down your ears next time! [to self] Ah, Luke, thank goodness she's yours.

_Aislinn takes her drum (and has Tristan gather Allan's little-used lute) and follows the page to Marian's chambers._

* * *

**SCENE -** Lady Matilda's (Marian's) chambers. The Lady is in repose on a couch, her abdomen grown ripe with child. She looks strong, and of good health, as the many trays and half-empty plates not yet cleared away from her (multiple) lunches still litter the space about her. She is eating from a bowl of sweetmeats.

Unlike others in the castle, to whom her condition would range from 'novelty' to 'rarity' (as noble women in this stage of pregnancy are cloistered), her shape and appearance are no shock to Aislinn the woman, who has witnessed many a child 'baked' and birthed in her village life.

Asher, the young eunuch, the castrato singer, however, would be rather in awe of the sight. Fortunately, _Aislinn's_ consuming curiosity about all things Lady Matilda easily appears to the unknowing eye as that awe.

**Aislinn:** What shall you like to hear, my lady?

**Marian:** [gestures to seat near her] First, shall we get to know one another? Tristan has told me much about you, and your master, Llanio, but I should very much like to hear the tale of how you came to be here, in France. You are come over from England, are you not?

**Aislinn:** [not expecting so personable an interaction] Err, we are.

**Marian:** [cannot stop herself] Know you any tales, sung or spoken, of good English yarns?

_It was a good thing Salima was not present for this momentary weakness on Marian's part._

**Aislinn:** [truthfully] It is my master who is best suited to such work, Lady. Myself I know but one by heart, a sad and sorrowful tale, mournfully sung. But if you must hear it, I _can_ sing it for you.

**Marian:** And what is it called? [ever on the look-out for something new, something Tristan has not yet shared with her]

**Aislinn:** It is: A Hero's Heartbreak, or The Death of Marian. [not knowing, of course, who she is talking to] It is quite popular among the English villages, but I have never yet heard it sung at Court.

**Marian:** [ghostly, absently] Yes. Sing that. I will hear that.

**Aislinn:** [singing] _In old Sherwood Forest, deep inside England/ It is green always, and winters mild/ People strong, and bandits noble/ Upon the seat of Nottingham's High Sheriff sat a man so foul/ His heart so black, his soul so cold/ He'd celebrate the birth of Sherwood's lord, good Robin Hood/ And serve his head on plate of silver/ He'd steal his love, fair Marian/ The maid yet set to wed him/ He'd kill the band of merry men/ With hired swords to bled them..._

It proved a hard rest-of-the-afternoon for Marian. It was not a song she had heard before. And it was riddled with wild inaccuracies. But in the end that mattered little. She wept, she cried, she raged at herself for doing it, but she knew what Salima would say (had she known); only that it was foolish to invite such unhappily strong emotions when the babe inside her had her heart already so tender, so ripe for any passionate sentiment; bliss _or_ despondency.

She worried she had nearly scared young Asher the bard out of his skin. She had made him sing it three times before she let him excuse himself. And her tears had begun before the first stanza was complete.

She had been so happy, thrilled with the world and her life, even such as it was, since she knew of a certain there was to be a baby. She had tried to let that joy take the place of the pain of separation and isolation from Robin. And that joy had only grown. Her delight consumed her at times, as on the day she first felt the little one move.

She tried (believing she had accomplished it) to let Robin go. Insofar as to let him go and do as he must do, trusting that he would again come for her (or she go to him). Trusting that the time _would_ arrive when they would be together. But it proved a hard trust to sustain.

She was having their baby. Protecting their baby, as Salima had counseled, in order to protect its father. Unexpectedly, Marian's anguish over their severed, possibly truncated life together at times proved hard to hold on to in the joyous wake of her impending arrival.

But not on days like that one. No, not on those days.

**TBC**


	38. Admirers All Around

**SCENE -** Kitchens. Long trestle table. This spot has all but become recognizable as Allan's 'office' he is so often in residence. This fact has not been lost on Salima, whom he continues to encounter with what would be alarming regularity if he were not convinced she had every good reason to visit the kitchens, and not that she was, in point of fact, spying on him.

The Sheriff's man has arrived at Court, three days past. _He_ appears somewhat _tired_ from his pleasure detour, whose bill Allan footed.

**Salima:** [conversationally] Your protegee has found himself an admirer.

**Allan:** How's that? Sounded to me like he made your Lady weep, leaving her in misery. I was surprised to see him return with _any_ coin.

**Salima:** Not my lady. [inclines her head] Him, over there. Michel by name.

**Allan:** [skeptical] Wot, him? And does he know about Ash's...condition?

**Salima:** Asher's state of being is hardly a secret, as you yourself have well-published it.

**Allan:** Well if it don't take all kinds...

**Salima:** [alludes to him spying] I am surprised you have not sussed it out. Or is it that bigger fish are your target?

**Allan:** [shrugs like he could care less] Don't like fish. [In truth, doesn't like being told news he has not dicovered on his own]

**Salima:** I fear for your belly, Llanio. All this time at table and soon the ladies will not hazard a second look at you.

**Allan:** [feeling prickly] Well, if what you say is true, we'll put Ash front and center now, try catching the _men_.

_Tristan arrives to fetch the Lady Salima to Queen Eleanor, who has need of her._

Allan is left alone for a spell with his black thoughts on how Salima managed to scoop him where intel (at least of a certain type) is concerned. And how she continues to tweak his nose about being a spy, though she has no solid evidence of such being true.

He is not left alone for long. Tristan returns with news that Queen Eleanor will hear him play, as it is her special pleasure to be entertained by any bard visiting at the Court at least once.

* * *

When he arrives at Eleanor's wing of the castle, Aislinn and Salima are already there. Aislinn is unable to conceal her utter fright at the coming moment of truth for Allan's musician's skill, and she is visibly sweating buckets. Even Tristan looks wary.

Salima attempts to intervene (whether on Allan's behalf, or on the behalf of the Queen's ears it is unclear).

**Salima:** Highness, please, I bid you, not _him_...

**Eleanor:** [grandly (as always) in charge, employing the royal 'we'] Lady Salima, contain yourself. While _we_ will gladly defer to you on any matter medical or Middle Eastern, while _we_ only hours ago deferred to you in that _our_ [rumbles grandiosely] _grandchild_ will be brought into this world in a bed aligned north/south and not east/west, _we_ shall ask that you keep your opinions as to music and poetry to yourself. [acid smile]

_This putting-in-her-place sets the room somewhat a-twitter, though Salima is not treated (nor held in the same fear) here as she is among the servants. (Which is not to say that she is treated particularly well, though she is a known favorite of Queen Eleanor's, much as it is said she is favored with the goodwill of Coeur-de-Lion.)_

It was a large audience, mostly highborn ladies-in-waiting to the Queen. Allan turned to Aislinn, took the lute she offered him and sat it on the floor, nearby the stool provided. The fingerboard was wet to the touch from Aislinn's panic.

His back to those gathered to hear, he gave her a good wink and a smile.

No one had to tell Allan-A-Dale he could read a room. Be it in France or Byzantium he had never yet been cloistered in Sherwood too long to lose his seemingly innate ability to know what people wanted. Or to manage to deliver on such.

He withdrew the pennywhistle from his vest, swept a gaze over the cluster of ladies present, leaving each one with the idea _she_ was his favorite, and took off at a breakneck pace, musically speaking.

Piping far too fast for the tales of courtly love he scorned (and of which the gentle ladies had heard little else), he heard Aislinn come in behind him, joining on her bodhran, her cipin keeping a driving rhythm on the goatskin head of her drum. His voice rang out clear (but mostly unremarkably) as he sang the song he had written, performing it with a vengeance.

**Allan:** _You say that you're in love with me, listen to what I say/You're too young to come with me, I must be on me way/And your brother is a peeler, and would lock me up in the jail/If he knew I was a poacher and I hunt your lord's best quail/Well, your daddy is gentleman, and your mammy just as grand/But I'm a gypsy rover, love, and I'll not be your man/Go home, girl, go home. Go home._

It was the tale of a joyous scoundrel, unlike anything lyrically or musically they'd ever heard. And as he sang, life and jolly impudence seemed to burst forth into that chill stone suite of rooms.

The space turned electric, and his charisma sparked, carrying them further through several bawdy tavern ballads never yet heard in the Court (and indeed, suitable only to the ale house); Jennye, Won't You Dress By Moonlight, Once A Lad, and Innkeep, Beg Thee Tell Not Me Wyfe to name but a few.

The less-than-professional style of his playing, the less-than-impressive quality of his voice mattered little. When Aislinn closed her eyes she could have sworn she heard all the sounds of a proper peasants' revel.

He was well-winded by the end, but he had more than proven his point to all in attendance: that he had a right to be there. That he was an entertainer without match (at least in that castle, at that Court, on that day). The Queen herself handed him the gold in payment, though more than several of the ladies asked for the honor.

**Eleanor:** [informally, more the Eleanor of Treasure of the Nation] You're a cheeky one, Llanio. You've set more than one of my ladies' underpinnings smouldering this night.[wags finger in warning] Mind that you stick to courtly love outside these rooms, though. [winks] I've got quite enough invested in keeping my own _fires_ banked without worrying also about theirs. [relishing the word, like a impish grandma who's pinching your cheek] Troublemaker. 


	39. Keeping Secrets

_Please see Author's Profile for notes and disclaimers up to and including this section._

Marian continues, with almost daily regularity, to request Aislinn come and play for her, but there have not been any further requests for songs about outlaws. Nor have there been any further waterworks.

Unfortunately, the news of Allan's triumphant recital for Queen Eleanor has shot the duo of Llanio and Asher to the top of everyone's request list, and the time-consuming duty of performing on demanded has seriously begun to hamper their ability to keep a handle on everything taking place at the castle, including their monitoring of the Sheriff's man.

* * *

Marian & Aislinn grow closer through their time spent in one another's company.

**SCENE -** Marian's chambers. Aislinn's time there has come to be one less of performing, and instead one of conversation, one of the few amusements now left to the pregnant Marian.

**Marian:** Shall I be glad, do you think, when this is all over?

**Aislinn:** The birthing?

**Marian:** Actually, I was thinking of it all: the secrets, the conjecture, the whispers, just to be clean again, to be only myself [she walks a fine line with the truth, here]

**Aislinn:** To be only yourself. Yes, I should think anyone would be glad of that.

**Marian:** [turning the tables] Then why not be?

**Aislinn:** Be what?

**Marian:** Yourself.

_Aislinn pulls a face, trying to make it believable that she is too confused to understand Marian's pointed comment._

**Marian:** I do not believe you for a boy, nor a man, nor a gelding. [taking the brunt of her admitting it off her shoulders] I am _somewhat_ acquainted with the act of portraying someone whom one is not. [smiles companionably] And you must remember that I have too many secrets myself to wish to expose yours. Does your master know? Are you and he...?

**Aislinn:** Heavens, no! I am a married woman.

**Marian:** Well, there, then. That was easy enough. Now let us be friends...

**Aislinn:** Aislinn.

**Marian:** And now we may keep one another's secrets with a clear heart, and the support of a friend.

**Aislinn:** But, Lady, I do not know your secrets.

**Marian:** [slight sigh] I can promise you, Aislinn, were they as surmountable as a mere masquerade of gender, I would gladly detail them to you one and all. But there have been promises made in regard to them. Promises I was not present for, but which I must uphold out of my respect and...duty to another.

**Aislinn:** [impressed] You sound like a knight yourself, Lady, owing fealty to your lord. [whom, of course, Aislinn thinks is Richard]

**Marian:** Be yourself with me, Aislinn, always, and trust me, as I shall trust you.

In short order, Marian discerns that Aislinn knows nothing of self-defense, and to amuse herself, and educate the younger woman, she manages, using a modified-by-Aislinn candle stand, to direct her in lessons (from her own, semi-comfortable position on the couch and pillows).

Aislinn proves both a quick study and an eager pupil, but does not tell Allan that she has admitted her identity as female and her true first name (and marital status) to Lady Matilda.

Her visits now increase to, at times, twice daily.

* * *

Days march on, until Allan and Aislinn have been at the castle more than a month. Over time, Salima has become his friend (in fact, though he does not understand it this way, she always has been). The once-frequent requests for his and Aislinn's services have subsided, and they are near to reaching a time when (were they actual minstrels) they must either produce some new material, some new excitement in their act, or consider moving on.

It appears the same is true for the Sheriff's man (that he should perhaps consider moving on), it would seem. They have worked out that he appears to be a messenger (possibly an enforcer) for Prince John (under the behest of the Sheriff), who has come to try and pressure Philip into an alliance with those traitors, and the remaining splinter of Black Knights. Philip has proven none too willing to meet with the man, though. Particularly not with Queen Eleanor _and_ Richard's (possible) unborn bastard currently under his roof.

**SCENE -** Allan has followed the Sheriff's man into the castle proper, where he believes the man goes to meet with a contact.

In a splendid bit of luck, days earlier Allan has located a seemingly forgotten nook existing in all its dusty glory behind a hanging arras. The space is none too large, and only extends about five feet wide and two feet into the stone wall.

It is there that, in all stealth, Allan waits.

His breath grew stale and the space grew warm, his face buried in the yarn-riddled backside of the elaborately woven tapestry. The cool of the stone to his back proved a small comfort. He had a minute to wonder whether a person could drown, choked on cobwebs. Then he had several minutes to continue on that track, as the man did not show. Allan was confidant he had correctly recalled the place of the meeting.

He waited.

Footsteps (though perhaps not the right cadence for a man's) approached.

The arras billowed like waves on the sea, the room's light briefly illuminating the small hidden alcove.

"Wotcher doin'?" he asked, her answer coming before his question was quite finished.

"I have news for you," said the Lady Salima, now quite close beside him, adding her own warm breath to the lack of fresh air behind the arras. "I must say I find it quite interesting that a Court minstrel might discern there was enough space here for a person to hide."

"Well, perhaps I have been making use of it for trysts with certain of my circle of female admirers," he bragged to her, his tone laid-back as usual, but internally he was feeling quite grouchy at her joining him here. "It is rather interesting that you also knew there was space enough here for a person to lurk." He could not see her smile, but felt her exhale from it in the darkness.

"It has long been my business," she began in her tone of utmost reason, "to ensure-"

"Llanio? You are here?" And suddenly Tristan was nudging his way behind the arras into the now-overcrowded space.

Allan's quick mind shot himself a curveball, asking (though not aloud) why Tristan first knew to find him (or anyone) hiding here, and second, why the boy did not naturally assume that two adults huddled in darkness, deliciously concealed in a secret nook were not busy in such a manner as they did not wish a twelve-year-old castle page to disturb them.

It was as his mind independently posed such a question that the back of his hand brushed against something not stone, not fabric, in that tiny space.

He had always known that his hands were his livelihood: so keen were his tactile skills he could tell over twenty kinds of seeds, fifteen kinds of dried herbs one from the other, blindfolded. Not to mention guessing to within the pennyworth of any coin from England or France, solely by touch.

So he did not need to be told that what he had brushed up against was the hand of the Lady Salima. He did, he found, very _much_ need to be told (by someone, anyone) why it had sent a shiver bone-deep into his skin. And why now his every sense stood to attention, every detail of that small space etching deep into his mind like precious stone would cut glass. The tightness of lung against the limited air. The heavy press of the arras against his nose and the side of his face. The peculiar feeling of almost laying down, their backs against the stone behind them, the arras like bedcovering. The unexpected intimacy of proximity. The breathing of one another's breath.

But the feeling, and the confusion that came with it proved fleeting, lost to him (to his memory, even) in the blink of an eye. Much as he could not explain it, he could not have recalled it, nor recounted it had he wished, its existence as ephemeral as a soap bubble, or morning dew on one of Sherwood's many spider webs. Its affect as intangible as rising fog.

"You wait on Prince John's man."

Damn her if she hadn't guessed it. "What? No, I wait for Gabrielle. The maid with the big," he gestured lewdly with his hands.

"Hmm," Salima replied, unimpressed at his lie or his gesture. "I am well acquainted with her notorious figure."

Tristan spoke, "The man will not be coming."

Salima completed delivering the news. "True, he has been taken and jailed. It is unlikely he shall live to see trial. We will have no more trouble of him, I think."

Allan's answer was not something either of the other two believed one whit, but it was the sort of shrugging 'dunno' cluelessness they had come to expect. "Why think you him a trouble to me? I know not of whom you speak."

He thrust the arras aside, finding it far heavier and more unwieldy than he would have expected, quite fed up with enduring such tight quarters with them both.

As he stomped off, doing little to conceal his irritation with them, Salima's clear voice (never raised, never shouting) carried to him, "what, then, shall we tell Gabrielle when she arrives to your rendezvous?"

At that, though she was ever able to deliver such jibes so reasonably, so honestly as to seem inhuman, Allan-A-Dale (or, rather, the wandering minstrel Llanio) said several very, very bad words, surprising even the rock-hard stones beneath his retreating feet.

It was the first time he had owned anything true, any fact or emotion, in front of her.

* * *

And so the Sheriff's man (whom the Sheriff awaits news from daily), has been exposed (with the help of Salima acting in the interest of and at the will of Queen Eleanor and therefore Richard), caught, and dungeon-jailed. He is unable to complete his mission, which to the best of Allan's understanding involved a possible alliance between Philip II and Prince John.

Something, however, keeps Allan at Court, rather than returns him (and Aislinn) to England immediately. His gambler's nose tells him something more is afoot. Something he would strive to uncover and take back news of to Robin, so that his mission does not reveal him an utter failure.

In this interim, it is interesting to note that he and Aislinn have become quite rich, as they have still all their performance-gotten gold, never leaving the castle (outside of which they would squander it), and having no need of buying anything so long as they are housed within it.

**SCENE -** Marian's chambers, a chance exchange between Marian and Salima.

**Marian:** Can you find no one at Court whose company you wish to keep? It seems glum to me that you must simply spend all your time with me alone, and my small circle of the world.

**Salima:** Your small circle of the world? Where bandits and former crusaders run wild in the woods, and fine ladies take to horseback to fight poverty and injustice? Where we hide here under false identities awaiting a birth heralded by nearly all to be royal? [dryly] Oh, yes, it is a tragedy that I cannot find more stimulating company. [knowingly] If you must become a matchmaker, you shall have to youre your mind to Philip's stables and settle on finding the best stallion to sire your filly. I am not for such games.

**Marian:** Come, Salima, there are no animals in existence that go through life without a mate.

**Salima:** And what of the last dragon?

**Marian:** What do you think happens to them?

**Salima:** Blessed extinction. [humorously] Had I known time at Court would so much turn your head toward match-making I should have petitioned more earnestly for us to stay at the convent.

**Marian:** It is only that I care about you, Salima, and would wish to see you happy.

**Salima:** [not unkindly] And so I am happy. You must know-though your happy heart right now will not let you believe it-there are worse things than going through life unmatched. [as always, darkly] And I have lived several of them.

_There is a pause, which lengthens._

**Salima: **You must never doubt my contentment, Marian [she rarely uses only her Christian name], as long as I am with you.

* * *

A visitor arrives to visit the Court. He is come by way of the Holy Land (though it is understood he left there long ago), which is to say he is a former Crusader, a knight of Philip's highest order, who fought bravely with Philip and Richard, and who may have safeguarded own his life, but lost a hand to the cause. His name is Sir Gautier of Laurent-Thibault, and his arrival and presence bring quite a stir to the Court as he and his achievements are celebrated for some days in a series of banquets, feasts, and bacchanals.

It is during one of these such occasions that Allan comes face-to-face with the fact that he is not the only one in the castle keeping secrets.

He had a jauntiness to his step as he struck off down the side corridor, within an easy distance of the Great Hall. This particular passageway was not as highly trafficked as the main stair, nor as wide and as grand. Often he had come upon couples clearly on their way to a quick tryst. It was not as well-lit, and the shadows certainly suited such pursuits (of which there were many during this holiday-ing time).

Usually it was enough to simply keep one's gaze slightly averted when passing anyone, the action of ignoring them proving sufficient to them in that moment, no matter that with the next morning their exploits were doubtless to be known throughout the castle.

He was between torches, and caught in the intermediary shadow when he saw such a couple (what he thought was such a couple) some meters before him, pausing for their meeting, strangely well in the half-circle of light the nearest flame threw on the flagstones. So well-lit and public it had the look of someone enacting a play.

Familiar with pretty much all types of ways to get one's kicks, the scene did not immediately track as wrong to Allan: he'd known more than a handful of folk who got a charge out of the danger of being caught in the act. (Though he himself had never cared for such, perhaps a carryover from his dislike of the idea of ever being 'caught' at anything; theft, lying, grifting, laying about.)

The man was big, his clothing some of the richest to be found at Court, his back was to Allan, his size blocking the woman from view, but when he raised an arm that showed no hand attached to it, Allan knew him for Sir Gautier, the castle's newest visitor.

But the meeting here did not appear to be mutual, though the speaking tones were hushed in a romantic way. He could not hear what was being said, but some scent in the air, some indefinable something told him all was not right. Though he could not see the knight's face, nor gauge his words, an air of danger and only-just-contained fury permeated the atmosphere.

Allan, who had stopped in his tracks took two long strides forward, planning to present himself, hoping that the appearance of a witness might diffuse whatever was about to happen. But in those two long, determined strides, two things happened: the knight moved slightly to the right, revealing the woman, and he very deliberately placed his single, good hand quite roughly to her pelvis, and then onto her crotch, concealed within full skirts and a draping silk girdle that hung like curtains to either side, falling from a fashionable double-knot on her lower abdomen.

Though her clothing came between his hand and her privacy, the knight's large grip clenched her there, as though he held a dog at the scruff of its neck, or placed a lead ring in a bull's nose.

His other arm, minus hand, had its amputated wrist pushed forcibly under the chin...of the Lady Salima. To endure such grasps on her person she was almost on tip-toe.

At the reveal of her, Allan froze, still in the shadows, still hidden from their view.

As he continued to watch, besieged by doubts as to what to do, he found this encounter struck him as familiar. It called to his mind days long past, of his youth at the tavern, of his mother and the other girls there.

He knew he was too far away to see into the Lady Salima's eyes, but he knew what he would find there: a sorrowful fear, anticipate of what was to come. A feeling of quicksand drowning: the more you fought against it, the more it sucked you down, the worse it made it.

He saw rejection to this knight's desires all over her; in her stillness, her lack of opposition, in her very resignation to his unearned aggression. This was not the first time _this_ man had treated her so. Allan sensed very strongly: this was not the first time she had endured such treatment by any man.

And then, before he re-caught his shocked breath, their chance meeting was over, Sir Gautier and Salima were now again simply two people passing in a hallway, nothing more.

As Salima retreated from Allan's sight, finally disappearing at the corner's turning, he found himself reflecting on what he had just saw, studying on this woman he had come to know. Come to think of as his friend.

The grifter in him saw her as she was, rather than as she wished to be seen. Strangely (for it was a rare occurrence), it was others who wished to see her another way, as physically repellent, untrustworthy, foreign, or a beautiful object, a novelty. She wished only to be seen independently of her physical self, which she understood as a distraction, an obstacle for her to overcome, a misleading advertisement, a come-hither for something in which she had no interest.

Why had he never paused to note that she had no man, no men in her life? He and Tristan were the closest things to sweethearts or family she had at Court. And as far as her own account went, Lady Matilda was her only friend.

The outlaw in him saw her boxed in without an escape plan, saw the one-thousand (very probable) ways her life here could turn sour within a quarter-hour (now, with this encounter, two-thousand). Why had he never noticed that her happiness here, her very safety, hung on a knife's edge?

Allan the thief saw her secrets: namely, that she had something to hide, or some things, quite possibly without number, as this unsettling reunion implied.

The simple fact that she was among a cabal of women (Lady Matilda, Queen Eleanor) keeping the most talked-about and well-known secret in two kingdoms did not preclude her from having many other, darker, more damaging things to hide. Rather, spinning news of one secret was surely nothing but conversational sleight-of-hand, distracting from the other buried skeletons. He saw her weaknesses; the vulnerability of her gender, her obviously well-established mind-set of prior victimization, and her solitary existence. He checked these off, weighing them against the sharpness of her mind and intellect, and against what he knew was her unwavering loyalty.

And the man, Allan-A-Dale? How did he see her? So disgusted by Gautier the man and _his_ obvious view of Salima, and his rough treatment of her (though it had lasted mere seconds), Allan found he rejected seeing her at all (at least on any conscious level) as a man might.

He tried to see her as Much, kind, compassionate, concerned, (the least 'mannish' man he could summon up) or even as D'Jaq might, seeing into the person Salima; hurt, afraid, apt to be embarrassed or dismayed had she known he was witness to her moment of being laid bare by this man, this man who had a power over her. A power, Allan saw, that Salima had thought she was well rid of.

* * *

Later that night, and for several nights counting, as Allan lays himself to sleep his dreams are nightmarish, and he is transported back to the Sheriff's dungeon of early Season Two, and torture at the hand of Sir Guy and the Jailer.

When he awakes he is in a sweat, and often Aislinn is near him, as he has been struggling not to cry out, and him wrestling about on his pallet has woken her.

**Aislinn:** [smartly trying to combat the night terror by aligning him as to where he is, hoping in his half-awareness he will not blow their cover] We are here, in France, at Philip's castle, [stresses] _Llanio_.

**Allan: **[defensively, he certainly cannot share such dreams with her] I know that, Ash. Just, I had a bad potato for supper's all. Go back to sleep.

He fails to connect the dreams of his own helplessness in the wake of overpowering malevolence to his (unacknowledged) concern for Salima's welfare.

**TBC**


	40. Everything Comes Out in the Wash

**ENGLAND -**It is said among the villagers in Knighton that the Nightwatchman has been seen, out riding in the late evening. But only around Knighton, and always in a white cloak. He is believed to be a wandering ghost, and it is further said to be good luck for one to catch a glimpse of him on horseback.

* * *

**SCENE - ** Sherwood Forest's deepest interior. Much and Robin are taking a rare moment of calm in their outlaw lives to do some laundry at their favorite hidden spring.

The water here is at its purest, and collects into a generous pool, in which, before washing their forest gear (as they have not that many sets), they have been at soaking and washing themselves in an extended bath. Both in good spirits (things in Nottinghamshire have been going well for the gang of late), there has also been no lack of water-based horseplay, although Robin, feeling today a bit more introspective than Much (but even then, not very introspective), has been largely on the receiving end of what duckings there were to be had.

**Robin:** [without preamble] I am going. [looks to the distance] When Allan and Aislinn return, I am going.

**Much:** [accepting, matter-of-factly] I thought you were.

_This seems to signal to Much a change in the tenor of their activity, and he moves for the soap, and his clothes, to work on washing them, adjourning his own bath, so to speak._

**Much:** The thought was so often and so strongly in your eyes, I thought you were going many times.

**Robin:** [chews thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek] As have I.

_Robin grabs his shirt and scrubs it against a nearby rock._

**Robin:** It is near ten months now.

**Much:** Has it been that long?

**Robin:** Do not doubt my tally of the days.

**Much:** So we are to take the adage to heart, 'no news is good news'?

**Robin:** No news is naught but no news, Much. I can stand it no longer.

**Much:** [trying for empathy] We have known many other lords whose wives were long at Court. Why, I recall that the Lady Derevel-do you remember her?-she barely came home to Lord Derevel's manor above two days a year, even at Christmas.

**Robin:** [patiently] But that marriage, that relationship...

**Much:** Of course, of course. I had not meant to make comparison. Only to say-

**Robin:** [waving off his unnecessary apology] You shall stay, this time, Much. I have need of you here.

**Much:** What shall we tell the others?

**Robin:** If I could but tell the truth, us being a gang at present of husbands separated from their wives, none would begrudge me the trip.

**Much:** But upon our oaths it is no longer our truth to tell, but the King's.

**Robin:** Aye, Much.

**Much:** And shall you bring her home?

**Robin:** I cannot decide. Perhaps I shall not know until I see her face. Is life in Sherwood for her? Can Marian not only live in the forest, but also be at peace with it? Perhaps Clem might somehow be able to protect her, shelter her?

**Much:** Yes, but the Sheriff and Gisborne.

**Robin:** [heavy with understanding] Yes.

**Much:** [again trying to improve Robin's mindset] I do not think the gang will mind, after all. [meaning, 'your leaving'] They will not see your leaving on a journey, from which you plan to return as they see Will and D'Jaq's abandoning us.

_Much is perhaps speaking only for himself here, perhaps not. It is unclear how 'much' Much has discussed this with the others._

**Robin:** [sorrowful at his friend's wrong-headedness] Much, _this_ [gestures, indicating Sherwood, and England beyond] was never D'Jaq's fight. I do not believe it was ever part of her plan to grow old and die here, and if it was, it was not very well thought-out. Will fights for us, wherever he is. It is my hope they are not ceasing in doing all good things where they are. Richard knows where to find them, if they may prove of use to him, to the cause of him making peace.

**Much:** Do you suppose they're happy? That they live a quiet life now, their bellies full every night? Sleeping in a cozy house?

**Robin:** The news we have from the wars would seem to indicate otherwise.

**Much:** Why do you suppose Will stayed? Could he not just have loved D'Jaq and left her, as you had to? To return to us, to the cause?

**Robin:** [sighs, thinks about telling Much how close he came to staying, even at the possible expense of Little John's life] You will understand better when you have your family.

**Much:** [truly taken by surprise at the notion] [in wonderment] My family?

**Robin:** [fleshes the idea out for him} Your wife and children. Pray God that you need never endure separation from them.

**Much:** My wife? And children? My children! [grabs on to an idea] Children! It has been enough time, has it not, for Will and D'Jaq to have had children? Well, _a_ child, at least.

**Robin:** [smiling, he rather likes the idea] Yes, I believe it has been adequate time for such an occurrence.

**Much:** Well when you are in Aquitaine, perhaps you could ask that woman-that Lady Salima-if you might use a pigeon and see if Will and D'Jaq have any news. Of children, or, oh! Just anything. [pauses] And tell them I think they should come back. To us. [throws up hand] Bring the child. I shall nanny it myself.

**Robin:** As practice?

**Much:** [proudly] As practice.

**TBC**


	41. The Prayers of AllanADale

_To be fair, this section probably has 2.5 paragraphs of "T+"ness in it._

* * *

**Calais, France - Combined Courts of Philip II and Eleanor of Aquitaine -** It is sometime later, behind that now-familiar arras, that Allan chances to hear news beyond anything Robin or Clem might have expected or hoped for: Eleanor, in deeply private discussion with her trusted Lord Chamberlain, (the kind of discussion that hiding behind an arras to overhear might bring about the separation of your body from your head) lets slip that King Richard is soon to land in France, and from thence to make his way to England, gathering men and support along the way of his over-land journey of France to the North's coast. He is returning to his oft-neglected island kingdom to set things to rights: punish the guilty, reward the stalwart, and, of course, raise more money and men for Crusade.

Upon realizing what he was hearing, Allan found himself hard-pressed to stand still in one place. It was as if his whole body vibrated. He could hardly hold in a victorious shout.

It was a very different moment than the last time he had heard of the coming of the King. Then, from Will's lips in that dank, poxy cave of Much's. How the fear had coursed through him, like an unexpected dousing of cold water over his head. His mind had raced to solve the poser of what to do with himself. He had wanted to run (after stealing a little something to get by). He wanted to run now, but in a very different direction.

Although he would not have known how to render the information onto paper to where it could be understood, he did wish for another pigeon, or similarly speedy conveyance, so urgently was the news needed by those still in Sherwood: The King was on the move.

But there was something else behind his joy in the news of the King's coming. It lurked there like a ghostly outline in the shadows beside him, in that dark, close space behind the arras. Its spectre-like presence bled over into the joy of the news, the rush of adrenaline that hearing such tidings had given him.

Allan-A-Dale did not believe in ghosts (certainly not during daylight hours). Allan-A-Dale knew there was no such thing as a ghost of a living person. But there it, or rather, she was, near to him, her long hair blacker than the black of this darkness, her breath sweet on his face, her generously tempting hip unconsciously butted up against his hardening-at-the-contact thigh to accommodate them both in the limited space.

And the dark, that let the mind wander and spin, filling in details, allowing him to conjecture her outline beside him, reminding him that her well-endowed bust would meet first with the tapestry, holding it out, away from her face. Causing him to try and recall what frock she had worn that day, if its fabric had been thick or slight, if the friction of her breathing, her movement, had stirred that dcolletage to sharp attention.

His mind (though he had not realized he had cataloged it) reminded parts of him that, as certain moments of cold or emotional upheaval had revealed, her nipples adorned the top third of her upturning breasts, when roused like lit candle wicks, begging for someone to come and snuff them, blow them out in an effort to extinguish (or heighten) their twin dancing flames; caress the underside in gentle stroking, full and heavy like the lower lift of her bum, a job for certainly more than one hand.

He felt an uninitiated youth again, his body and brain in hopeless conflict. How to speak to such a woman?

"You can live without anyone," he had once told Ash, meaning it.

"Until you can't," she had cautioned him.

"Tosh," he had said in answer.

"Tosh," he said again, to no one. That's all it was. He was certainly no rube where enticingly beautiful (or crafty) women were concerned.

_So why, he found himself asking, when I've more than got what I came for, when I could walk away from this job the moment this room clears, grab Ash and be half-way to the docks before luncheon-why, then, is the Lady Salima all that comes to my mind? And not a plan, not an exit strategy? Why a woman?_

Was he, had he been, so hard up? He supposed, contradictory to the speech he had given Ash before they left Dover, he hadn't really 'gotten his'. Not much, anyway. Spying and intelligence gathering had proven rather time-consuming. And he hadn't really found any of the women of the castle to his taste (he told himself), except, perhaps, for a moment just after they arrived, Celinda the chambermaid, but it had not been long before he had been set straight that she was married, and...

So was this to blame? His neglected libido? Getting in the way of his mission's success? His return home? Allan-A-Dale had no trouble spinning a yarn to anyone in the universe, but he had to admit: he did not like lying to himself.

He needed some time to think.

* * *

**SCENE -** The Castle's chapel, usually sparse of attendees, save for the service times, and even then in this holiday atmosphere, few bothered to come, most waiting for the sinning portion of the holiday to conclude, at which time they would return for their penance. And the chapel would again fill up. Until the next debauch was planned.

It is a quiet place, at present, perfect for reflection. And clandestine meetings.

Allan-A-Dale finds himself here, hoping for a bit of both. He has informed Aislinn that their departure is imminent, though he has not shared the news he discovered with her yet. He knows every moment they stay it becomes more likely that others might also stumbled upon the same information, as did he. (Well, perhaps not entire stumble. There was some art to it.)

He has sent Tristan to call down the Lady Salima, if she will meet with him. He has a message for her. His nerves are brittle, he finds, as he jumps high from his pew at the noise of Tristan's characteristically buoyant return.

**Tristan:** She cannot come. The Lady Matilda labors with child, and will be delivered. The Lady Salmia will not leave her. What message shall I take her?

**Allan:** [frustratedly] No, _you_ cannot take the message.

_His thoughts are not pleasant ones. He would not have her leave her beloved lady's side. Not for him in the chapel, nor for anything else. For her to do so would be a denial of who she was. He would not have that. And yet, he would have her here, to speak to before he left. He would have her, here._

**Allan:** [clipped] I shall wait. Tell her I shall be here.

**Tristan:** What, for hours? In the chapel? It could be more than a day ere she is delivered, they say.

**Allan:** [grits his teeth] I shall be here. [begins pacing]

**Tristan:** [shrugs] I shall tell her. [turns to leave][turns back, trying to make it better for his friend] I think she _would_ come, Llanio. If she could.

_Allan grunts his reply, still studiously pacing, as though he himself had some reason, some investment in the child, to wait out the impending birth. As though he were the expectant father, the nervous uncle._

* * *

**SCENE -** Almost a day later. Still the chapel. Allan still waits, delaying his departure, risking (perhaps) the success of the King's return. His mood alternates from strangely eager to wretched. He has not eaten (as he has not left the chapel). He has not slept. He has done nothing but think. And, surprising himself, pray.

At first he thought just to try out the prie-dieus, kneeling gingerly on their padded boards, but he found the position oddly comforting, allowing him to rest his head in his hands, his elbows on the narrow shelf before him. And then, somehow, it just seemed natural to let his thoughts, racing as they were, wrestling with his predicament as they were, direct themselves not inward (as he had exhausted his own wisdom on the subject) but upward.

It is during one of his turns at the prie-dieus that she entered the chapel. His back had been to the doors, so he heard the rustle of her skirts before he saw her, had a moment of skipped-heartbeat anticipation upon the intervening seconds of knowing she had arrived, but not yet beholding her.

He extricated himself from the kneeling bench less-than-gracefully, his legs entangling, the bench thudding over to the floor.

Seeing this, shockingly, astoundingly, and entirely without precedent, the Lady Salima laughed. And her laughter was like tiny silver bells he had heard in the Holy Land, worn by a dancer they had met in the desert, small as tiny cloves they had been, scores of them decorating bracelets about her ankles. The sound (and, at the time, _her_ hips) had bewitched him. He had never thought to hear the like of that again, the beguiling music of those bells, the sound they made like faery magic, something in a child's happy daydream.

He could not know it, but it was the beginning of the laughter of almost thirty years, built-up, once chained deep inside Salima, but now released.

**Salima:** _Your_ heart seems too merry to be much suited to prayer.

_She is unable to suppress a constant smile throughout their exchange._

**Allan:** Well, it ain't today.

**Salima:** Something is wrong?

Uncharacteristically he thought first of her, and her recent concerns. "Your lady, she is well? Her babe lives?"

"My lady," she beamed at him, "is excellent. The babe, a boy, is strong. And loud of lung." She eyed him, knowingly. "But you will know this, of course, being so connected within the castle."

"I? No. I know it not. I have been here."

"But this is not the lower kitchens," she teased, uncharacteristically. "What secrets the friar and priest know, they are meant very sacredly to keep, are they not? Or have you been plying them with bribes?"

Her mood and demeanor were so opposite his present feelings, so diametrically different, even, from her usual serious, contained self, he could not quite get his footing in their conversation.

"I find that I must go." It was a far more abrupt statement than he had meant to make. Then again, in all his time alone trying to sort his thoughts with himself, and with God, he had not settled on any sort of outline for what he had to say. Nor even, decided on any gist of what he had to say.

"Well, one must make their living," she answered his declaration, her spirits _perhaps_ slightly dimmed by it. "Though why a minstrel would choose to move on from such a plum position, I should wonder." Ah, but here again was the new Salima, teasing him. "But then, I have very little experience with the minstrel life."

"As have I," Allan added under his breath.

She had not heard him. He walked to where she stood, nearby the door where she had entered, got himself into a pew, and gestured for her to follow.

"I have come to say goodbye," he found himself, for all that this new color to her personality was quite captivating, wishing for the return of her no-nonsense self, as it would be much easier to say his piece (whatever that would prove to be) to her, to _that_ Salima, and not this charming, beautiful (_always beautiful,_ he thought, _even at her sternest_), glittering demi-goddess.

"Oh," she said, but her face took on an instant of confusion, as though she did not understand why he would do so.

He soldiered on. "I wanted to tell you..." He found he didn't know what he wanted to tell her. Only that something inside of him wanted to tell...something. "My name is not Llanio. It's Allan."

"Allan," she echoed.

"Llanio's like, uh," he shrugged, "my stage name."

She watched him, clearly curious, but also somewhat confounded, as to what would come next.

If only he could have told her that his own curiosity in the matter of what might come next from out his mouth surely matched hers.

"If you are ever in England, in the East Midlands, at any tavern, ask for Allan. They will find me." Now why had he done that? What good would that do? She was not likely to travel to England with her French Lady mistress and Richard's maybe-heir. Ah, but he was mucking this all up.

And then he knew, he knew what he wanted to do, though his brain (and his heart, even) hid from him the reason why. He wanted to take her with him. To ask her to leave this place with him, with Ash, and sail for England, and Sherwood, and his every-definition of safety. Safety, like the Saracen word engraved on his dagger.

His mind very quickly glossed over what she might or might not do, living in Sherwood. Perhaps he could help her get set up in a house in Nettlestone (he had always quite liked Nettlestone), or Scarborough, even. Perhaps he could help her find respectable work there. Perhaps Ash knew of something.

But then, it would not matter, for the King was coming home. The King would set all to rights.

In that long moment before he next spoke, in that moment when his invitation, his emotional request for her to come with him (though to what end, and in what capacity, he did not know) died on his lips, Allan-A-Dale met with a transformation there in the rarely-used chapel of Philip II of France's castle in Calais. He realized that for him, the time had come to step willingly from the sun, and into the shade, and he chose the needs of Robin Hood, and Richard Plantagenet, over his own desire.

His desire for Salima to come with him was still muddled and unfocused. He was not yet solidly sure why it seemed to be so important to him. But he did know for a certain that Richard, King of England, and Robin, his chief, his friend, his _brother_, needed him to relay the message of the King's coming to the lads, so that they might help ensure their sovereign's safe arrival on England's shore.

"Yes," he re-iterated, now aloud. "I have to go. It is only that I wished to say farewell."

He looked to her mouth, to her chin. But he had no thought in that moment to kiss her, no matter the stirring physical thoughts he had had of her prior. He saw her chin, then saw it in the grotesque light of violence. _Sir Gautier_.

"There is a man, newly arrived here," he wished to warn her, but would stop short of referencing what he had seen. "I think he may wish harm to come to you." He did not expound upon his knowledge, nor give the knight's name. "Take this." Instinctually he withdrew the blade Robin had given him from its long-familiar spot within his vest, keeping it in its sheath, the dagger that he had cherished so much for so long. "Keep it always close, and do not fear to use it if you must."

In an act he would have found strange, had he not been the one to commit it, before handing her the dagger he pressed his lips to its leather-wrapped hilt and closed his eyes for a moment, wishing he had brought the rubies to replace in their settings, to again make it beautiful, beautiful for her, this only memory he might leave of his existence.

"Do you mean to say that you are going because of," she did not use a name, "this man?" And now the smile she could not hold in was truly gone. Her eyes grew large with apprehensive inquisitiveness. "What is he to you?"

Allan, emboldened by his flash of epiphany, took the risk, telling her truthfully, "No, I go on the King's business."

"As I am here on the King's business," she reminded him, her speech slowing in the wake of his gift and his declaration about Sir Gautier.

He allowed himself to grip her bared arm, just above the exotic curved bracelet she wore north of her elbow. "Congratulate your lady for me," he requested of her, knowing that she wondered why he had not again broached the subject of the child's parentage today, "on her fine, strong boy."

Without further squeeze, without even the stolen luxury of letting his hand slide off her biceps and down to her forearm in a careless caress, he left.

Upon reflection, later that day as their ship made sail for Dover, Allan-A-Dale found that it seemed to him that he had not so much as stopped in his retreat from her since he had stood from that chapel's now-sacred pew.

**TBC**

* * *

_I wouldn't usually say anything like this, but because I think some people might totally freak out on me until the next part is posted (and mind, it's not yet fully written): The next chapter will deal with the birth of Marian's child, in a (hopefully) cool rewind, as three main series characters' stories will be told in what would be Episode 11: "A Matter of Life and Death". There will be flashbacks to Nottingham pre-Crusade, current scenes in France with Marian in labor, and details on what is taking place back in England during this time. **-Please, no hate mail.**_


	42. We Begin Episode 11

_Skip below to the double line to go directly to the episode._

First, A Brief Word About Flashbacks:  
Love them, hate them, they are a necessary (and sometimes effective) storytelling tool. While I personally love a Highlander-style flashback (a long ago past-time incident that informs on the present action, adding depth and meaning), as a rule I chafe at the SciFi Battlestar Galactica flashback episodes that show us the present action (only very briefly) and then back the story up to its beginning, making us endure a sort of 'backwards' storytelling. It seems to me lazy smoke and mirrors without substance, and I'd much rather watch the story unfold conventionally (and often, can see no reason why it should not have been allowed to do so).

That said, (despite my own personal dislike for the convention of showing the end before showing the beginning) it was needed in our tale for Marian to have her baby initially off-camera, where Allan heard about it second hand. Dramatically it's more interesting, more unexpected, and subverts reader's expectations, providing a shock. It was also necessary especially since having the baby is not the actual climax of Marian's storyline.

So we have had Allan's distant view of that day, and hold the knowledge that the child was born healthy, and Marian is well (keeping us from having to worry about those aspects of the story), and now we step back 36 hours and see that day from the three perspectives of our series' main love triangle.

During this episode, Marian experiences flashes of life with Robin, as she narrates their story to Salima to pass the time. As her labor progresses to the more stressful stages, her reminiscences grow more internal, dreamlike, and generally more conflict-oriented as their timeline grows ever-closer to his leaving for Crusade. Nonetheless, unlike Robin's visions of her, what we are seeing here is an entirely true history of things that have occurred.

This will be her journey to new life, and, with only three episodes left in the series before the finale, a last opportunity to tell the pre-story we've heard about, and thought much on (some of us, anyway) but whose details have not been shared.

Episode 11, _A Matter of Life and Death_, is told by intercutting three separate stories into the episode, including flashbacks.

While this, in practice, might prove tricky and intricate, here, it will most likely read on paper as clumsy (at the least, ungraceful). Apologies if it is so, or if I fail to place a segment appropriately for maximum awesomeness. Mostly, try to keep the idea of cutting back and forth, and try to enjoy the written-out flashbacks.

We will alternate between Marian, in France, Robin in Sherwood, and Sir Guy in Nottingham. The episode follows their thoughts and activities on the day, plus some, that Marian gives birth to her baby, keeping in mind that Robin is oblivious to the coming child and Guy is oblivious to the fact that Marian lives.

* * *

**"Previously on Robin Hood" -**  
_Shot One_  
From "If You Can't Stand the Heat"; **Marian:** And as our fathers grow ever-older, should the day come when this betrothal sits ill with either one of us, for whatever reason-?  
**Robin:** We release the other from it. We find our own bright future, as it finds us.  
**Marian:** Yes. I accept.

_Shot Two_  
Snip of Marian's [totally awesomely delivered] speech in the dungeon in S1 Ep2, "Sheriff Got Your Tongue?" about glory and Robin leaving behind the people he claimed to care for to go on Crusade.

_Shot Three_  
Gisborne significantly calling Marian "_my_ lady" in S1 Ep5, "Turk Flu".

_Shot Four_  
Snip of Gisborne's speech to Locksley's Thornton before his wedding in S1 Ep13, "A Clue: No", in which he shares his view of what Marian represents to him, and what he thinks she has the power to do for him.

_Shot Five_  
Robin admitting to a believed-dying Marian in the cave that he should never have left on Crusade, S1 Ep12, "The Return of the King".

_Shot Six_  
Marian proclaims her love for Robin and gets Gisborne's sword in her gut, S2 Ep13, "We Are Robin Hood".

_Shot Seven_  
Showing that Marian yet lives: We hear, as though he is in the room, Robins call from the prior scene, [_Marian, why are you not here?_] At this, Marians eyes open, and she asks, drowsily, "Where have I been?"

_Shot Eight_  
Robin and Marian shown in an amorous clinch from "The Beast of Desire".

_Shot Nine_  
From their romantic detour in the woods from "Into the (French) Woods": Marian moved her hips to roll him onto his back. "You amaze me," Robin marveled, breathlessly.

_Shot Ten_  
From "Enter the Sheriff": **Sheriff:** [to Gisborne] This Clem being on our side, it's essential. _Or_, does he remind you too much of the sister? Hmmm? Those same brunet good looks? No doubt the same soft, cool hands?

_Shot Eleven_  
From "The Curious Rescue of Little John": **Clem:** Here, let us be reconciled, _Brother_.  
As Robin looks on (Clem's paraplegia well-noted by all), Clem rises to his feet, and extends a hand to Robin.

_Shot Twelve_  
Tristan announces that the Aquitaine Court will move to Calais, referring to Marian as Lady Matilda.

_Shot Thirteen_  
New footage: Queen Eleanor is shown seated nearby gossiping ladies who chew over the speculation that Marian's pregnancy is of the King's making. She smiles with satisfaction at the rumor's rapid circulation.

_Shot Fourteen_  
Snip from "The Prayers of Allan-A-Dale": Uncharacteristically Allan thought first of Salima, and her recent concerns. "Your lady, she is well? Her babe lives?"  
"My lady," she beamed at him, "is excellent. The babe, a boy, is strong. And loud of lung."

_Shot Fifteen_  
New footage: Allan and Aislinn at the railings as their ship makes sail for Dover, and England.

_Our story begins_. The opening teaser shots are as follows:  
Written on the screen (after the arrow SFX): '36 hours ago'.

**Nottingham -** Sir Guy rising for the day. He has taken to sleeping on the hard floor, without bedding or personal comfort items of any kind. It shows a new Spartan-ness to his existence, but also shows that he has become a little bent, no longer entirely a member of the human race, as creature comforts no longer interest him.

We want to affect a sort of wall between Sir Guy and the scenes of Robin and Marian, so nothing of his shots (sound, color, tone) ever bleeds over into theirs. He is alone, his existence solitary, as is his despair.

However, between Marian and Robin, and vice versa, sounds, conversation, etc, lead to an interesting interplay between their segments as though the two places are (at the least) psychically interconnected.

**Calais, France -** Salima pulls aside the drapes around Marian's bed to let in the light of day. Marian is already in the deep sweat of labor. A bird is heard singing outside the castle, and the sound of its song carries us into the next shot...

**Sherwood Forest -** We continue to hear the bird sing, wondering now, was it a Sherwood lark we heard all along? Has one found Marian in France? This shot is extremely pastoral (especially after the prior two, Gisborne's darkness, and Marian's stress and discomfort) We see Robin, alone, going about some business in the forest. This is shot so peacefully and idyllically that it is almost to the point of comedy, but surely to the point of irony in juxtaposition with what Guy and Marian are shown doing.

Just before Robin's shot ends, we hear Marian shout in response to her labor, (though we do not again see her), as though the sound rings out through Sherwood (Robin does not appear able to hear it) and we are then sucked into The Opener. [Which I will not recap here, as think we've all seen it. We've seen it, right? Good.]

[Post opener, post commercials, actually, I don't know when the commercials fall, because I've only ever seen the show on DVD, so I'm guessing that a commercial break exists after the Teaser and the Opener]

**Calais, France -** Salima suggests to Marian that she tell a story, and generously lifts the ban on the direct mention of Robin's name.

**Salima:** Our time together here may well be long, but I cannot believe it will be much-disturbed. Our labors will be our own business until their conclusion. We can be confidant few will listen to hear much, even your screams.

**Marian:** [not really convinced yet she will be breaking down and screaming][Tries out his name] _Robin_. Robin and I are hardly strangers to long periods of separation. Even after our betrothal we rarely saw one another...[begins story]

**SCENE: Flashback, pre-Crusade -** _[This is written in Robin's POV, though, yes, I *know* that Marian cannot tell a story from Robin's POV as she would not know things that only happened to him or that he only thought or experienced. It's a flaw. See also Saving Private Ryan for same flaw (and Spielberg was involved with that). There are probably going to be a lot of similar transgressions in the following flashbacks. The mis-use of POV would play better on TV, though, once the flashback began, because it would be shown in third person anyway (as the audience would be omnisciently able to view them). Okay, I shut up now.] Let's try this again..._

**SCENE: Flashback, pre-Crusade -** It is the May following the autumnal betrothal of the Earl of Huntingdon's son and the Sheriff of Nottingham's daughter. [See this story's prior chapters 1 & 2.] Robin is 18, Marian still 15 (his birthday is October, hers has not yet happened). Edward of Knighton occupies the seat of High Sheriff of Nottingham. His two sons, Edrick and Clem, you may recall, have both died (as has Lady Knighton), leaving him with no male heir, and a daughter as his only family.

The May Faire has come to Nottingham, and the town and castle grounds swell with its gaiety, and booths spill out beyond the drawbridge and (at this prosperous time) still-filled moat. Color is everywhere, and for those with money to spend (or an eye to earn it) there is fascination of every kind.

All of Nottinghamshire seems to be present. For the many nobility celebrating the holiday, the inner bailey and the castle, where sedate parties and elaborate feasts are planned, is the acceptable social center of their festival.

But, naturally, as we would expect, Robin and his mates have come not for what the castle offers the ruling class, but for the shooting contests, games of chance, and pretty local (and visiting) girls to be found in abundance among the peasantry.

It's May, a month where almost any behavior is excused, and high-spirits (and tankards of spirits) rule the day. For any eighteen-year-old, but particularly for a privileged eighteen-year-old set to one day become Earl of Huntingdon, it is quite the auspicious occasion. No girl is too pretty that he might not catch her eye, no seller's trinket too costly that he might not afford it. He is goldenness incarnate, and nothing can touch him. As such, no door is closed to him, within the castle or without.

Milling about amongst a cluster of young men his age, Robin, as we might expect, is ever the leader. "What say you, lads, where shall we begin the afternoon's fun?"

"Wherever the prettiest maids might be found," suggested Bor, the biggest among then, and still tightly in the grip of teenage acne, but never allowing it to dampen his always jolly spirits when it came to girls.

"Nah," answered Sim, leaning against a barrel and picking his teeth with a long piece of hay. He was slim and sometimes over-sure of himself. "All the prettiest ones are back at the castle." Sim was just beginning to be of an age where his father's dislike of the masses was claiming him as well.

"Ah, pretty maids know no social class!" Robin protested, confidant that the gift of beauty was no respecter of persons.

"Says the man wot is betrothed to the prettiest of them yet." That from Arth, the ugliest among them, and the least civilized, too, hairy as a Viking, who closed his eyes every night just wishing a girl might take a second look at him.

"She's not really that pretty," dissented Gamien quietly (as he did all things: quietly). "And her disposition is far from pleasant." He had more than once been on the wrong end of said disposition.

"Yeah," Bor asked, his curiosity genuine, "how'd you ever get the old sheriff to agree to that? Wedding his daughter to _you_?"

"Probably let yer dad do the job for ye, eh?" Arth teased.

Sim's tone was more derisive: "While you were too busy out in your woods to put thought to your future, and the pleasant evenings wot could be had with such a lass under yer covers."

Robin did not like that sort of talk. It was new for Sim. It sounded more like something Sim's father might say when he was in his cups. Robin thought about calling him on it. Marian was, after all, his future wife. He supposed it was up to him to defend her honor, his honor. Well, someone's honor.

He threw the first punch, claiming first blood, and a glory of a scuffle followed, dirt and fists flying everywhere. In his not-yet-finished growth, Robin was slender but spry, and wiry, and he had been allowed to fight more frequently (parts of his upbringing rather an afterthought) than had Sim.

But even in the end, when they were separated, no one could say who had come out the winner. It was like all their fights: a blowing-off of adolescent steam. If the lads didn't have a scrap between some two of them every hour or so, things might combust into something really nasty. And at the end of these tussles, they were all still friends again, or at least, as much friends as they ever were in the first place.

"She's here, you know," Gamien pointed out, when the dust cleared. "I saw her at the castle."

"Well, that is more than I can vouchsafe," Robin admitted truthfully, shrugging. "I have not seen her these long winter months". He was the only one of them yet betrothed, his position plummier than theirs, his father (and Marian's) better able to play their advantage in matchmaking and empire-building.

"And you have had no word? No _billet-doux_ to warm your heart? And your loins?" Sim taunted him. "Is that what sent you into Kit Carlisle's arms? Sick for love?"

"Why's she talk so funny now?" Arth asked, preventing Robin having to answer Sim's leading questions. "She don't sound right anymore."

"Her father has sent her for polishing," Robin explained patiently, as he had been explained to patiently, when finally he had noticed that he did not ever see Marian around anymore (it had taken him from September to Christmas to notice her absence, so frequent was his own absence from any social gathering). "He wants her to be posh, I reckon. She was sent to her mother's sister's house near Guildford. That is where she has been this long time. At her lessons."

They had walked along while they spoke, and found themselves in front of a fortuneteller's gypsy wagon, set beyond the portcullis of the castle. Robin turned to move them away from it: he had no desire to hear about his future. He got that news nightly (when he could be _found_ by anyone at Locksley Manor), delivered to him in tones ranging from loud to hushed-with-intensity by his earl father, whose grew less and less satisfied with what he saw as his growing-to-grown son's lack of responsibility taking.

But when Robin turned to avoid the fortuneteller, he and his mates came face to face with a flock of, a pride of, a gaggle of-castle pretties. The noble maidens had been allowed to leave the castle to see the faire, and there, in the middle of them, standing out from the rest like the north star, taller than the others, looking straight at him, stood Marian.

The lads froze stock-still, any bravado they had had only moments ago evaporating. Tongues grew thick, brains turned soft, and hands and armpits sweat with fear.

The girls, all silk and fetching hip-girdles, hints of still-growing curves, sweet smells and elaborate hairdos belied their mature appearance, and collapsed into tittering giggles.

Except Marian. Except Robin. Each held their ground, their gazes locked like the leaders of two rivals gang, sizing one another up.

_Why would she not giggle like the others,_ Robin found himself asking. Would it hurt so much to act (even if it were only an act) like one of the other silly, foolish girls? Weren't all fifteen-year-old girls supposed to be more or less ninnies for 95 percent of the time anyway? (The other five percent were they not supposed to be only irresistible for kissing?)

But they certainly weren't supposed to be able to look. Like _that_.

Had she heard the name Kit Carlisle, he wondered? Would Regina, standing to her left, her light hair in a braid, keep secret that kiss last Christmas? Okay, those three kisses? Before his mind spun him the logic of further possible disasters, before he could further contemplate that look she was still aiming at him, he turned on his heel and swept past the curtain into the fortuneteller's gypsy wagon.

The woman inside was not old, nor wizened, as he had expected her to be. She was younger, and quite pretty enough to have caught his fancy, were his wife-to-be not still standing (he was sure she was still there, waiting, waiting), distractingly on the other side of the curtain.

What was he afraid of, anyway? _He_ was to be the husband to Marian, the one who governed the relationship, their home, their very life. Had his father not instructed him so as often as he might since their autumnal betrothal? Knowing that, knowing that was how marriage between nobles worked, what had Robin to dread?

That Marian was not much one to be governed, his mind spoke up. That no matter the amount of polish, nor if she had come back from her aunt's speaking only fluent Cornish, she was not biddable by nature, no more than he. And how could he, how could he now, how could he ever, take on such a responsibility that he knew in his heart of hearts he could not fulfill? That he did not wish to fulfill. He no more wished to govern a woman than he wished to himself be governed.

Last fall, cast in the right lighting, and the right mood, eventual marriage had seemed three worlds and several lifetimes away, but he knew now-his earl father had well-apprised him-the plans became ever more solidified, the day ever-closer.

He had not noticed as the woman had begun to light herbs and consult various items in front of her.

She spoke. "You will travel."

Oh, yes, he had heard the like of this before.

She squinted. "An ill-advised trip to the Holy Land."

He attempted a similar squint at the same object. "Will I see the Holy City? Jerusalem?"

"You will see death." She frowned as she looked at something closer, then grabbed his hand to see the lines it held.

He wondered at the calluses from his bow: had those made affect on his future? Had they altered what was to be his path? Could he have such power over his own fate?

Certainly his father would not like such an idea. One was born to the Earldom, to its inherent responsibility to the land, the people, the sovereign. One did not somehow manage to subvert such God-given noblesse oblige.

"The Green Man watches you, I see it," she told him. "He calls to you. His song you know well."

"Tell me of my wife," he asked her, certain that she knew of him, enough to know that he loved the forest (so it seemed), and so would know he was troth'd to Marian.

Her lower lip jutted out from her mouth. "A child," she announced. "_Your child_. It will be known by all for a bastard."

"Right," he agreed with her, his face now cracking with a saucy smile. "And you probably tell that to every lad what steps in here, trying to keep them better behaved than nature made them."

He flipped several coins into her money pot for her time, for his moment of hiding here, and again stepped out to meet the sun. And Marian.

"Lads, come! Let us have who is next, for this fair sage's prophecies are so spot-on, I have a mind to try my hand at the gaming tables such is _my_ luck!"

"And what has she told you, Robin," sang out Liss, a sometime particular favorite of his, when her two older brothers were not at home.

Marian still had that look about her. _Giggle_, he thought. _Just once, giggle! Simper, something! Something to show you're still flesh and blood._

He stood at the top step of the gypsy wagon, elevated from the rest of the crowd and crowed. "She has predicted _seventeen_ children as the fruit of my marriage! Fourteen of them strong boys."

The gang of young men sniggered deeply and impishly as though he had spoken the naughtiest of double entendres, smacking each other on the back, and laboring to catch their breath.

His announcement did indeed prove Marian flesh and blood. That blood flooded her face in embarrassment at his boast.

"First wife, or second?" asked Fann, a good-hearted freckled girl whose elderly father was the manager in-residence of Bonchurch Lodge, thus giving her a minor elevation in society to mingle with the girls of more genteel birth.

"No," he said aloud, significantly locking eyes again with the still-blushing Marian. _Curse her if even in her mortification she could not avert her eyes_. "I shall marry only once."

"Oyez, oyez," the crier was heard above the faire's din before another gibe could let fly (for surely one of the lads would have offered it). "Let it be known the shooting contest is set to begin in one hour, beyond the jousting meadow."

The clump of young men and castle girls began to disperse then, slowly pairing up, self-consciously at first, and then the lads, perhaps fearing they might not get a try at the girl of their choosing, sped along the process, several of them getting a lass to each arm.

Shortly, Marian and Robin were without the insulating safety of their entourages.

"You have come to shoot," she said, her tones now indeed round and fluid, though the bow slung over his shoulder made it an unnecessary observation.

"No," he corrected her. "I have come to have fun." And his eyes twinkled.

She returned his look of mischief with one far less sympathetic, rather, suspicious.

"Let us have some fun together, Marian," he offered, adding, as incentive (reading her state of mind correctly), "surely your father would like for us to be seen together."

"What, now that all the other girls have gone on without you?"

_Why did she always do that, pretend like he selected her out of necessity, instead of by choice?_

"You may go after them if you like," she bowed, a Courtly dismissal. "I shall not keep you."

This provoked in him a prickly response. "I have never yet had trouble finding girls to keep me company." With one hand's sweeping gesture he took in the whole faire, and its crowd.

Marian turned her back to him quickly, to leave. He could not see her wounded expression. She was a mess of contradictions.

"No, wait!" he went after her. "That was not the right thing to say."

She stopped and turned back to him.

He looked to the nearest booth. "I shall buy you a ribbon for you wrist," he offered, seeing its wares, "to make peace."

"No," she said, a bit too strongly to be simply declining the offer of a trinket.

His head jerked up from the display of ribbon he had been inspecting.

"You only do it to brag to your friends that I am yours, that I wear your token tied like a shackle about my wrist. Am I not obviously enough your prize, with your mother's ring on my hand, and veiled for your benefit?"

"What do you mean, 'for my benefit'?" he asked, the way she had said the words as though they were a witch's hex. "Is this not how _you_ choose to wear your hair?"

The veil fabric, though sheer, was fastened about her head so that no part of her hairline was visible. Certainly it was a mark of fashion no eighteen-year-old male spent any time pondering, though upon reflection it was a commonality among married female nobles. He noted that the style made Marian's wildflower blue eyes seem larger by half, and twice as bewitchingly expressive.

"My aunt in Guildford says I must wear it, as the girls there do, once they are affianced. They must cover their hair like married women. It is meant as a sign that their..." she worked hard for the word, ruling out several (more accurate) others, "_beauty_ is to be seen only by their husband."

Robin took a moment and thought back. It _was_ rare that he had seen Marian with her head covered. She had, when they were younger, been outdoors so often that her hair was always a-tumble, never staying neatly put. The last time he had seen her it had been long, two feet well below her waist, plaited so as not to get in the way, but a far cry from the ornate hairdressings and head covering most noblewomen modeled.

"And so this is my fault? Though it is none of my doing, nor none of my want?" He did not bother to take care in his tone, as he was now in a temper. "I cannot say you have much improved with your time at Guildford."

"Nor you, with your doubtlessly endless time skylarking in Sherwood." He could not know how jealous of him she was for that.

"I think I should like a rotten tree _there_ far better than the company of your aunt."

And she laughed. Not a giggle, not a silly twitter, but a laugh.

"Come," he said, grabbing her by the hand; a peasant's way to walk, not as the gentry with her hand elegantly resting atop his extended forearm. "We will have no ribbons today," he declared. "But I shall buy you an olive."

Robin bought several large olives from a vendor of Grecian delicacies, and when they had eaten all but two, it was time for the shooting contest to begin. They watched the standard target shooting, and she marveled that he did not enter. Several of his mates had, but none got very far. It was Dan Scarlet of Locksley that took the prize for target shooting, and Marian and Robin watched the award of it, as he stood with his wife proudly by his side to accept the quiver of arrows made by Nottingham's finest (and most expensive) fletcher.

"There," she heard Robin agree under his breath, "now that is just about right."

And so Robin's not entering came to make perfect sense.

He _did_ enter the trick shooting competition.

"Help me out now, won't you?" he asked, without being more specific, and she allowed herself to be pulled along behind him.

Several men before him had been using the same beggar to shoot apples off his head, which proved the most popular trick-shot of the day thus far, but when the poor beggar stepped up to Robin, with his hand out for the small coin that would be his payment for taking the risk, Robin overpaid him by a farthing and waved him away.

"Trust me, Marian," he said to her, his eyes intent on hers for an instant as though there was no one else in the world. She had barely gotten her breath back from the intensity of the exchange before she realized he had backed her up against the wooden wall that served as a target, and was arranging her left hand against the boards at shoulder level, so that she gripped one of the last plump olives between her thumb and forefinger.

"I have been practicing on Much," he assured her, his voice calm and even as though she were a horse that might spook. "Though his nerves make him a bit shaky for a target. You, I think, shall do much better." And then came the smile he knew how to wield so well, even at eighteen.

The crowd, upon seeing that he cheekily used the Sheriff's own daughter as his mark, roared their thunderous approval, and in the wake of their response she found herself loathe to leave the field, though she did not doubt poor Much shook. _She_ was at her wit's end suppressing her own tremors.

Thankfully, with some sleight-of-hand, Robin had distracted her from the fact that he had also set a second fat olive upon her head, giving himself two targets, either one of which it was greatly unlikely any archer might hit, much less the two simultaneously.

His even daring to attempt the trick had the crowd in a frenzy of anticipation.

He fed off their energy, letting it go far to convince him he could pull it off. He had, more than several times in the forest-when Much would stand still for it. Of course Marian was taller, as Much had not yet had his growth spurt, and she wobbled appreciably less.

He nocked the two arrows (his best fletching work of late) on his bow simultaneously and sighted the line to each olive. He took in the direction and strength of the breeze. He could do this.

The green color of the second olive stood out perfectly against the white sheer veil Marian's hair was restrained in. Even on a cloudy day he could have seen it. But then his eyes did a trick of their own, and all he could see, his mind and concentration suddenly muddied, was the headcovering. She wore it because she had to-for him. Because of _him_. In his name someone was made to do something against their will.

She had not said she would not marry him, that she would dissolve their own agreement, only that she did not wish to be so publicly designated as someone's prize. Robin liked prizes. Hoped to win one for this shot, but how could he be this girl's husband? How could he take on responsibility for another person's life-when he was frequently told that he took so little for his own?

Awash in these unexpected thoughts, he lost his grip on the bowstring prematurely, he forgot to breathe.

The arrows flew, with the crowd's anticipate in-suck of breath behind them.

The olive between Marian's fingers: its pit pinned perfectly to the boards, its fruit shorn in two, on the grass below.

Half the crowd cheered, the other half hissed.

The olive on her head went un-struck. His aim had faltered, and the arrow meant for it had instead split her veil, following the line of her hair's part perfectly, but in doing so the olive had rolled and plopped to the ground, with that blunder, Robin's defeat total.

He would win no prize that day.

"This is fine Venetian fabric!" Marian protested when they were again within speaking distance, but her face showed no emotion of outrage over the cut. She held the rent veil in her hands, sun catching in her dark, uncovered hair, twisted into the severe knot it had been dressed as for the veiling.

"Do not ask me to buy you another," he said, displeased with both his poor shooting and his mind's quandary where she was concerned. "You may have your pick of girdles or sashes, if you like."

Marian studied the torn fabric. She did not attempt to console him (or even mention) his lack of triumph in the contest.

As there had been no giggles before, there was no uber-sympathetic nonsense to comfort his ego, no dramatic over-motherly concern for his wounded pride. She was really not much like other girls.

"I have not been allowed outside for this long in upwards of three months." She spoke to her hands, not looking at him, as though she were in the Confessional. "And I am never allowed to ride. Even when we are traveling I must always sit in the coach." At that, her foot scuffed at the ground, wanting to kick something in frustration.

"Are you tired of the faire?" he wondered, aloud.

"Oh, no!" she brightened, "Far from it, only, I don't know what I want, only I know I want to do _something_."

It was a feeling he was well-enough acquainted with. Without telling her why, he directed them through the crowds toward the East Gate. Along the way they stopped at several shows and plays, browsing the booths.

Much was waiting for him at the gate.

"Thought I told you to go and have some fun?" Robin chid the younger boy. (Much is two months away from fifteen, and is dwarfed in height-and social grace-by Robin.)

"The Earl told me, when he found me," dismay was visible in the servant's eye, "to find you and attend upon you, especially once he heard you had found the Sheriff's daughter," a quick cast of his eyes to and away from Marian, "to escort."

"Well, then, you may fetch my horse, please it my father to make you work on a festival day."

Much returned with the horse.

"What think you, Marian?" Robin asked, believing his invitation to a ride clear.

Marian responded with a full critique of the animal, thorough and specific enough to do justice to any horse trader. "...He is not a very elegant mount, and short of stride, too. Is he much fit for an Earl's son, grown?"

Robin almost laughed at her serious assessment of Griffyn, his belovedly familiar, but hardly regal (and somewhat aged) gelding. He drolly reassured her that Griffyn was plenty enough horse for him: "I am not going to war, Marian. I need not sit a destrier."

She ran her hand along the dappled grey 's flank with an almost thirsty yen. She seemed unaware of what Robin was offering her.

Without preamble, Robin grabbed her about the waist, and tossed her into the saddle. She landed well, seated (as society expected) with both legs over one side. A moment later he mounted behind her (and the saddle), Griffyn's long back used enough to carrying two, from Much's and his frequent doubling up.

He took the reins, encircling her inside of them and his extended arms, her hands to the pommel, and, with style and aplomb none among the aristocracy could fault, they left through the East Gate, with a wave to Much. There were not many about the East Gate, as action had moved all not ensconced within the castle away to the jousting grounds.

In the saddle, Marian held her back stiff, erect to the point Robin felt pain and effort just looking at it, his arm longing to curve about it in a gentle touch that might say, "it's okay, there is no one watching now". But her rigid posture dissuaded him. The cantle prevented his pelvis from coming into any close contact with her left hip and side, which he imagined cold as ice. This notion saddened him, only making him resent this aunt (and the father who had sent Marian to her) more.

They walked Griffyn, then cantered him a short distance to a coppice of trees away from, but well in sight of Nottingham's walls.

Robin dismounted, and Marian looked as though she thought she must, too.

He raised his hand to stop her.

"Take him out," he offered. "Give him his head if he will take it. Do as you like."

"My gown is not meant for riding astride," she commented to the empty air in front of her.

"There are none here that I see to care for your aunt's interpretation of propriety," Robin assured her.

She swiveled herself quite efficiently into a forward-facing position on the saddle, and paused.

One look to him and she dismounted. His understanding of her desire was swift: in no time they had unstrapped Griffyn's saddle and she had re-mounted him bareback and astride, impressively without assistance from the flat of the ground.

Her skirts did little to hide her lower legs, such was their narrow cut, but Marian no longer seemed aware of it, smiling a thanks as she galloped Griffyn away at breakneck speed, leaving Robin to himself (but not unhappily so) among the stand of trees.

She returned sooner than he would have expected, at the sun giving its first indications of setting. She rode in with the colors of the coming sunset to her back. Her hair had come undone, or she had taken it down. It fell all about her, knots and tangles well-begun from her wild riding and the wind's mischief-making hand. She did not seem to notice. A flush was on her cheeks and her eyes were bright as she wordlessly extended an arm to help him up behind her. In accepting it he thought he took the arm of long-dead Boudicca, riding hard to fight the Romans and avenge her family; her pride and fierceness, her tenacity well-known to both enemy and friend.

Doubtless, Boudicca had not giggled. Or simpered. Or flirted by placating the ego of a man who knew damn well he had slipped his bowstring prematurely.

He did not attempt to take the reins from Marian. One did not overthrow a Boudicca's power so.

"How fast, do you think," Marian wondered aloud, "with both of us?"

"Well," said Robin, swallowing back a sweet word he might have called her (one did not offer pet names to the warrior queen Boudicca), assaying a humorous tone calling for temperance in the matter; "let us not ruin him. But let us," he abandoned the jokingly serious tone, "afford him the opportunity to _distinguish_ himself."

In short order it became necessary for Robin to hold on to Marian's waist quite tightly. Which, he found, was entirely agreeable.

_Transition Back to Present Time_ **Calais, France -** Marian's chambers.

**Marian:** [begins as voice-over until camera shot finds her within the space] Everyone wondered where I had gone that day, but I never told.

**Salima:** And your lord, Sir Robin?

**Marian:** [somewhat gritting her teeth, pain around the corner] From that day he has never confessed to me what the fortune teller predicted for him, though like Delilah I have badgered him for it many times.

**Salima:** Perhaps he spoke true; seventeen children, fourteen boys?

**Marian:** [speaking through contraction] _Huff, huff_. Let us hope, then, _huff_, Not. All. At. Once! _Arrgh!_

**TBC**


	43. Father Knows Best?

_Notes, etc. at my author's profile will be fully updated with the next posted chapter (44)._

* * *

**Nottingham -** Cut to Gisborne.

Unable to compartmentalize having killed Marian, and baffled that Hood has not yet killed him in revenge, Gisborne has lead a tormented, rudderless existence this season. Money, power and position hold no interest for him any longer.

As Marian labors to deliver her baby in far-off France, things converge in the fractured mind of Sir Guy.

We see him dress himself for battle; yet, telling no one where he is bound, he departs the castle, unescorted.

* * *

**Sherwood -** It is winter in Sherwood (after two seasons, at last!) and the challenges of having a camp in the snow and cold are revealed. Quick shot of Robin alone, going about the mundane tasks of forest life, pleased to find several fine coneys caught in one of the outlaws' snares, signaling a fine meal to come (and a bit of fur with which to line someone's coat or to swap for supplies).

An incongruous noise (for a forest), like someone knocking on a large wooden door with a cavernous space behind it is heard (again, Robin seems not to hear it). This sound echoes again, until we see the next setting...

* * *

**Calais, France -** Marian's chambers. A knock on the barred door is heard. Marian is busy walking the room (at Salima's suggestion), staying close to walls, stopping and crouching when she needs to, to accommodate pain.

**Salima:** [answering to the knock, but not unbarring the door] The Lady Matilda is unable to see visitors at this time.

**Tristan:** It's me. I have a message for the Lady Salima.

**Salima:** Then speak it.

**Tristan:** The minstrel Llanio wishes to see you in the chapel.

**Salima:** [too confused by the curious location to be also by Allan's unprecedented request] Did you say _the chapel_? [Going on without waiting for his answer and without needing to think as to what her answer will be] I cannot leave my lady. You must carry my regrets.

**Tristan:** [still through the door] [formal in his response, as it is Salima] As you wish.

**Salima:** [turning back to join Marian in her walking] _That one_ would surely mount quite the offensive against our door had he any idea of who you are, and what treasure you hold. Ah! Not to speak of these tales flying out of your mouth today! I shudder to think. And here he is, carrying messages for a minstrel! What trouble he will see if it becomes known he shirks his duties thus.

**Marian:** [seizing the time between contractions] Sometimes it is not so terrible to take a break from responsibility...[hardly an idea we would expect Marian to espouse]

* * *

**SCENE: Flashback - pre-Crusade - Sherwood Forest -** Deep in the forest, but near to Locksley, directionally speaking. Robin has brought Marian with him.

Her ubiquitous headcovering is nowhere to be seen, and, in fact, has been left with Griffyn at a spot before the faint trail became too rough for a horse to navigate. She no longer wears it when she and Robin are alone, and its removal has come to signal to her a true "letting-down" of her hair (and her guard) in his presence. Any pleasure or happiness she has anymore seems to be linked to him. Certainly any small freedom she experiences is.

It is very late in August, the second August since the May faire horseback ride. Robin is 19, breathing on 20. Marian is 17. They are holding hands as they walk. (But the moment is more companionable than romantic.)

**Robin:** [sweeps his free hand about to show Sherwood in its early autumnal glory] Is this not better far than a hanging?

**Marian:** [quizzically] Why do you keep referencing it like that:[mimics him] a hanging? As though I were some sort of a fan of hangings?

_He doesn't answer, and no longer seems invested in discussing the hanging set to occur that day in Nottingham. (The place they two are technically supposed to be.)_

**Marian:** [defensively, Edward is all she's got] It's not like my father _likes_ to hang people. The man killed his wife after a long night at the tavern, and _two_ of the Guard when they came to arrest him.

**Robin:** [absently, he is at bliss, among Sherwood; he is no longer interested in the conversation] _Mmmmm_.

**Marian:** [running on in her own insecurity and imposing her own prejudice on his bare reply. In essence, at this point, she is arguing with herself] I _hate_ hangings, Robin. They are a bestial form of punishment. They are no way to govern men. And their families, often not at fault, are the ones who in the end most suffer. [righteously] No one is thinking today of the children that will now be orphaned, with no living parent to provide for them. [takes a breath, continues to defend herself] I only attend them because, as the Sheriff's daughter, I must. [hits on a notion] Why, I have seen _you_ there!

**Robin:** I have only been to two.

**Marian:** Two!

**Robin:** [still dreamily, not quite engaged, even though he is responding] Once, as a child, because my father thought it best I should witness one for my education, and the second, as it was a Locksley villager to be hanged. Sean Merwin.

**Marian:** But my father allowed your father to commute his sentence, and grant him clemency! He did not hang.

**Robin:** True. [he turns to her, the impudence of what he is about to say bringing him back into their discussion] But still, it was a hanging, with all the bells and whistles; the roasted chestnuts and mob of people armed with rotten vegetables. The executioner _was_ there. It counts.

**Marian:** It does _not_ count.

**Robin:** You almost sound as though you wish he _had_ hanged. [feigns shock] What a black heart you must have! I shall be sad to report it to old Sean Merwin when next I see him. And to his family of, now, seven children; that Marian of Nottingham and Knighton, their future mistress, Lady Locksley, yet wishes old Sean hanged.

_A frown quickly creases the space between Robin's brows, though his last comments were in jest. He turns his face from her quickly to hide the telltale expression of his unknown-by-her black thoughts._

**Robin:** [his voice somewhat rough, the negative emotional moment not yet buried by him] Come! Further up and further in!

_Marian follows him, pulled along at some points by his hand in hers, until they come to a small clearing, in which stands a short little round hut, its walls woven basket-like of limber twigs and switches, and covered over by bark and moss. The round roof comes to a peak and is thatched (with thatch that must have been imported to the forest from the outside, as nothing like it grows within). It is about six feet in diameter, no larger, and quite possibly smaller. One could hardly stand upright inside it._

There is no door, only an opening. The workmanship is primitive, to be sure, but also inexpert. Sections of the wall are noticeably shorter than others, and the thatching looks as though it were quite possibly thrown onto the roof willy-nilly, without thought as to where it might land, or where it might best keep the elements out.

**Marian:** You have discovered some outlaw's makeshift hideout?

**Robin:** [pride wounded] Makeshift?

**Marian:** [quickly discerning this is Robin's own doing] This is to be a...hunting lodge? [trying to understand]

**Robin:** [proudly. He has built it himself, and until now shown it to no one] My home.

**Marian:** Your home. But you have a home: Locksley Manor. Why..._fashion_ another?

**Robin:** Marian, do you think you could ever...ever would...that...

_She looks at him hard, trying to follow the words that he cannot quite say._

**Robin:** [giving up] Dan Scarlet drew a plan for me. I think he did quite well.

**Marian:** [not yet realizing this is not the thing to tease Robin with] Yes, _he_ did quite well.

**Robin:** [steps toward the door opening] Will you come inside?

**Marian:** [with significance, attempting to flirt] Isnt it proper for a gentleman to carry a lady across the threshold of any new domicile?

_Though they still see one another infrequently, Marian and Robin's relationship has grown closer over the past fifteen months since the May faire flashback, especially since Marian was allowed to return to Nottinghamshire from her aunt's. They usually argue less. Usually. And, with her hormones of now seventeen years, her wedding day impending, Marian has come to expect, and hope for, small physical intimacies such as hand-holding and the occasional chaste kiss._

Though she will still not throw herself at Robin (for the sake of decorum) she does wonder at the tales she hears of his amorous exploits with other girls, as he has never-yet treated her casually where their physical relationship has been concerned. She knows from her acquaintances (and close female servants) that she has been far less initiated into adult relations than most her age, noble or common, and she often wonders why.

Especially by Robin, who, if one listened to idle talk, has kissed nigh-unto three quarters of the shire's female population.

And so, today she is trying her best to entice him. Or, what she thinks in her inexperienced mind might entice him; like asking him to sweep her off her feet and carry her into his handmade shelter in the unchaperoned depths of Sherwood.

Certainly it seems like something Robin would do; take little care for the outcome, throwing caution to the wind, and enjoy the moment.

If nothing else, over the last fifteen months he has taught her an appreciation for such behavior. Only, just not sensually.

"Ah," he said, the moment's shine quite gone for him. "But I am not feeling much like a gentleman today." His foot shuffled about the leaf-strewn ground.

Marian's eye sparked for a moment, thinking his statement a come-on, and he was not so green at reading women that Robin did not see what she expected of him.

He thought for a moment _he could_ do it, he could ask her what he had brought her here to: "Marian, if it became necessary, if I were to lose everything: Locksley, the earldom, my lands and name, all titles. If I were to be just me, would you, would you live with me, here, in Sherwood? Could we do it and be happy? Could you simply be Marian, and I, Robin? Wife to a yeoman husband who trapped to eat, living outside the shackles and expectations of town?" He _thought_ he could venture to ask it.

For he had always been happy among Sherwood. Never happier anywhere else.

_[Close-up on Robin's face as we are transitioned to a flashback within our flashback.]_

* * *

**SCENE:** Locksley Manor, the evening before.

It is nearly a year and a half since the fortuneteller predicted Robin would see the Holy Land. He seems to have forgotten that she announced it would be an ill-advised venture, for her prognostication was the first thought ever to gain traction in his mind about going to Crusade (though he has never shared her words with anyone).

In the interim time, his father, Robert, the Earl of Huntingdon, sent him to present the Locksley taxes personally to the royal exchequer in Lincoln.

Robin not only performed this duty, but also came to meet Richard Coeur-de-Lion himself, by chance also visiting the city.

Like many, Richard found Robin's exuberance irresistible, especially once he saw that it extended into a love, almost a joy, in the act of combat. Richard realized quickly he had found someone his army could use, and whom he could not only trust and personally depend on, but also enjoy the company of. A rare commodity that a king could not afford to overlook.

He did not even have to suggest Robin join him. The young lord invited himself.

For several weeks now the Earl has refused to accept Robin's decision to go, and certainly refused to respect it.

Robert, Earl of Huntingdon, is a good man, a charismatic leader among the nobility, revered by his serfs and yeomen. One who values duty, but also adheres greatly to it (and who is much-endowed with it).

His relationship to his only child has not been, for the most part, antagonistic, but large parts of their lives have been lived separately, with the Earl overseeing Locksley, et al, with Robin off doing his own thing in Sherwood, or out and about.

The Earl has taken the ordering of Robin's future seriously; certainly Robin has never yet shown any interest in doing so (and it must be tended to). His choices for Robin are not to spite his son, but for what best serve the Earldom and the obligations thereof (thereby best serving the land and its people). Robert, the Earl, is a fine-looking man, fit and well-schooled by his father in the folkways of the civilized world. Although his house and person have been without a woman since his lady-wife's death, he and Robin live a polite, informed, cultured (insofar as one can be in the East Midlands), and kempt life.

He is not an old man (he is younger than Edward by more than twenty years)-perhaps 42 years-old, but since the death of his wife well-over a decade past he has always been serious where his son is playful. Though he loves his son and has patiently tolerated his jocund ways, this new-born interest in Richard's holy war confuses him, grieves him, and worst of all, frightens him.

To this point in their life together, Robin has generally done as his father wished in most (if not all) matters. And instances where he has defied him have been in favor of fun or excitement, never in an effort to repudiate his father's domain over him as both patriarch of his family, and as the Earl, to whom he, Robin, owes allegiance and obedience.

Thus, Robin found a way even to come to terms and find what happiness he could in his father arranging a wife for him.

Unlike other boys he has not yet felt the need to rebel against his father's authority, perhaps because he has been permitted to run wild in his younger youth (out of his father's absentmindedness where he was concerned), and even now, nearly twenty, he has been given his head in most things.

After all, when authority is lax, one need not oppose it, not if one can live happily (and keep others happy) within its generously loose bonds. Robin has long been both conditioned and resigned to this notion of existence. As Robin told Marian the night of their by-proxy betrothal, "How can I stop what he does? How am I to put an end to his plotting and planning?" Robin has never seen a way to truly subvert his father's all-powerful will, nor yet any reason so important as to try to do so.

This history between father and son has led the Earl to the mistaken belief that Robin is easily shaped to another's will, when in fact it is Robin's own jolly nature that has been searching for ways to reconcile itself to the Earl's demands all along, in a desire to please his father where possible.

So now has come the time when the two find they cannot both be reconciled to the Earl's will. And the Earl is only just beginning to learn how stubborn and resolute his son can be when the time is right, and a compelling cause has caught both his imagination and his fancy.

**SCENE -** After supper, the Earl invites Robin from table to a smaller room, which holds a high, slanted table like a monk's copying desk, where the Earl may stand and do any record keeping needed on his lands and people. Sort of a medieval "office", it also has a door that opens directly to the outside so that tenants and villeins may be seen in the space without coming into the main house. There is a fireplace, unlit tonight, and two candles (the Earl and his son do not bother to live elaborately).

The style of this room mirrors that of the Manor's Great Room, off which it is set, down to the twin brands on the mantelpiece, that symbol of Locksley intertwined with Sherwood; the circular strung and drawn bow and arrow.

Interestingly, it is in this same space, seated in the very chair his father now stands behind that Robin, five years hence, will find himself staring for hours into the fire, re-contemplating his father's words of this night as he weighs the decision of defying the Sheriff of Nottingham and rescuing Luke, Will, Allan, and Benedict Giddons.

**Robert, Earl of Huntingdon:** [leaning over the back of a chair, resting his forearms on the crosspiece] Are you not happy, Rob? Is it this betrothal- Edward's girl-is _this_ what you run from?

**Robin:** [his attitude taking its cue from their last chewing over of this: affronted][he does still hold his tone as civil, he is not one to carelessly disrespect his father] Do not characterize it as running simply because you have turned your back and isolate yourself here, willfully ignoring the wars. It is few who would call one of Richard's men a coward. [not delivered as a threat] And fewer still, I think, who would _live_, having done it.

_They do not shout at one another. Their speech is reminiscent of a spirited exchange of ideas, as though they were simply debating points on any topic of interest, not necessarily one in which they are both so emotionally invested._

**Earl:** What you so cavalierly call isolation is simply the real responsibility of life you choose to turn your back on, in the name of Richard's tale-spinnings of glory and fame in a hostile country far away, where English money is spent and Englishmen perish that are needed _here_, in the fields and at their families' tables. It is not too late for us to pay for a substitute, a man to go in your place and assume your pledge.

_He stops at the dangerous look in Robin's eyes._

**Earl:** [working hard to persuade (and he is good at it. It is from him Robin has inherited his own considerable ability to charismatically deliver a rousing St. Crispin's Day speech)] It is not Jerusalem that needs you, Rob, it is Bonchurch, and Locksley, and Nottingham-and one day soon, Knighton. Can you not see that your first duty is here? That your service is needed here?

**Robin:** [sees his moment] Yes, Father, [smiling] and that is why it is so perfect that you yourself have no designs on joining Crusade. [echoing his father] For Bonchurch, and Locksley, and Nottingham...shall surely always have you! [and like many a young man, he believes it: his father will never die]

**Earl:** [reaching a point of exhaustion and exasperation] I should never have sent you to Lincoln, had I known you would meet with Richard. He has turned your head.

**Robin:** Should a king not inspire his vassals? Did Old Henry not once inspire you?

**Earl:** [dryly, for Richard's father Henry was bloodthirsty enough in his day] Old Henry was perhaps _somewhat_ less eager to ride into certain death, taking thousands with him. [renewed energy] You cannot be blind to the cost of this folly, Rob, for as well as I you can name the lads lost in the name of Richard and his wars.

_Robin does not point out that his father's words border on treasonous._

**Earl:** [listing the fallen] ...Clem of Knighton, Edrick, too, though you recall him not. Wat of Clun. Your own peers; Bor, Arth, Hal, Thad. Gamien now returned without his lower leg. [falling back on his earlier tack] Reginald is set to buy Sim out of going. It is no shame to do so. It is-

_But he sees this line of supplication is a dead-end where Robin is concerned. The Earl wishes for an instant that Robin loved the girl, Marian, that he might stay because of her. Even that, though not of his doing, would be something._

Robin has reached a point beyond arguing. He is decided, his demeanor is calm and without aggression. For him it is now all down to brass tacks: the when and how, no longer the 'please may I', or further wasted attempts to convince his father.

**Earl:** Surely you are not so cold as to put young Much through the harrowing experience of battle?

**Robin:** I am not. He wishes to go.

**Earl:** [snorts] The lad would follow you into a burning barn but did you go first.

**Robin:** Will you stop him from going with me?

**Earl:** [sighs] He is yours, Rob. And he is your responsibility, and one I shall certainly not relieve you of, as it appears to be the maximum responsibility you agree to yet accept where Locksley and your future are concerned.

**Robin:** [re-asserting his position] I am going, at week's end, to Lincoln to take the Cross, and then to ship. Richard has promised me a place in his Private Guard. And that, my Lord Father, [genuinely] I owe to you, and your excellent schooling of me in the arts of combat.

**Earl:** [resolved, knows he is losing his son, but still in distemper] I will not buy you a knighthood. I shall not throw good money that can be used here after bad decisions, and the warmongering of Richard and his Knights Templar.

**Robin:** [inclines his head slightly in assent] It is your money, to do with as you please.

**Earl:** [ruefully] No doubt Richard shall knight you on the battlefield. The King is fond of such dramatic flourishes, I have heard. [exhale of defeat. To business] You may have your pick of horses. And you may take one for Much. I should not wish either of you to be handicapped by an unfit mount.

**Robin:** I thank you. It is best, I should think, that Griffyn should see more Locksley pasture in his age, rather than rattle his bones on a journey toward the Holy Land.

**Earl:** [his temper feeling more even as they speak of matters regarding the estate, it is like what he had hoped to have in future times: the commonality of the earldom with his son] There is a fine run just cleared down at Bonchurch Lodge. I shall see to it he is sent there.

**Robin:** I shall be sure to visit it ere I leave.

_But the Earl can't do it, he cannot let this go, let Robin go. It is too much to ask. He does not know if his son will die, but he knows enough of death and killing and war to know that the cost of such is always too high. (He himself rode out with Old Henry to lesser battles when called upon to do so.)_

He would no sooner agree to dip Robin in boiling oil, or stretch him on the rack. It is in this moment of knowing his child, now a man, is going that he fully realizes that all the gripes, the complaints and worries he has had about Robin over the years-his lack of gravitas, his disappearances, his frequent inability to take anything too seriously-these are the very things he knows he, as a father, will lose to this venture, whether they are taken from him by the physical death of his child, or the transforming emotional and psychological experience of war.

**Earl:** [final plea] Do not go, Rob. The risk is too high, the cost too great. [becoming emotionally impassioned, but not toward tears (think Viggo Mortensen)] As the man I am I hide behind speaking of the people, the serfs and villeins who depend on Huntingdon for their very livings, their everything. I hide behind it, though it is a truth in which I believe, because I stop short of telling you that I need you to stay. All these years, all the rows, my tempers and your disappearances, they are all in the end my way of trying to say this, to teach you this: you are needed here, within this house as my son, _as my child_. And without, as heir to Huntingdon, as future Lord of Locksley...

* * *

[transition back into the forest with a nineteen-year-old Robin and a fifteen-year-old Marian, and the shambles of a round shelter]

...and," Robin heard himself add on to his father's list in his own head, "soon-to-be heir-through-marriage to Knighton." He was not sure, perhaps in choosing to go against his father's will he _might_ return to find himself disinherited. It was not out of the question. Hence his thought to ask Marian if she might stand by him were he to lose his home and his name.

As Marian looks at Robin (unaware of the memories and thoughts washing over him) standing at the doorless opening to his hut, we see what she imagines in her sixteen-year-old brain: the color palette turns golden. The awkwardly fashioned hut becomes instead a well-crafted stone-built bunker (or castle-let; a mini-castle) snuggled here among Sherwood. Robin takes on more of the cast of Much's Vision Robin. The camera lens morphs him to become physically more impressive, his posture and bearing more regal and elegant, his clothing more tidy and luxurious (and no longer practical for Sherwood).

**Robin:** [breathlessly passionate for no apparent reason] Marian, I...

**Marian:** [expectantly] Oh, yes! Robin!

_And he takes her in his arms, sweeping up her long skirts artistically from the forest floor, effortlessly lifting and carrying her over the threshold into the (surprisingly well-outfitted) dwelling, while they kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and never seem like they will stop kissing. (Or like they will progress to anything more than kissing.)_

The transition shot back to the actual moment is like a visual version of the "scraping the needle across the record" sound.

Abruptly we see again the real Robin, his face still showing us his interior quandary. (There is perhaps a light feeling of humor as his countenance is shown in opposition to the one Marian has conjured for him, but it quickly passes.) He has brought Marian with him this far, will he ask her his question? Will he tell her of his decision to join Richard and leave Nottinghamshire? Will he, as she so desperately wants him to, kiss her?

_To commercial break_

* * *

**...TBC...**


	44. Bad Decisions

_Please see Author's Profile for up-to-date notes and disclaimers ._

* * *

_Return from commercial break_

**Present Time - Edge of Sherwood Forest -** Gisborne dismounts from his horse, slapping its rump to set it off back to the safety and anonymity of the Sheriff's stables. He soon sets to hacking his way very deliberately through heavy underbrush (brown and dead, as you will recall it is fully winter) two hands on his sword, and disappears into snowy Sherwood, alone.

The effect here (and perhaps it is a little camera trick or some CGI) is that as Guy moves further into the forest, Sherwood (and the visibly dead foliage he just hacked a path through) seems for an instant to regenerate (can we believe our eyes?). Impossibly, unseasonably green tendrils sprout and quickly intertwine menacingly behind him, somewhat like a Venus flytrap or other carnivorous plant traps its prey; closing up the way out, devouring the trespasser.

_This_ is the Sherwood superstitious villagers speak of: an ancient living entity, who holds onto what it wishes to keep and spits out what it does not. A tangle of impassable vines and endless tracks that circle back on themselves, paths that seem to never terminate in the same destination twice, a primeval (some say bewitched) landscape few can navigate, and even fewer wish to.

Sir Guy of Gisborne will not find it an easy place to leave.

For even in the winter, Sherwood sleeps not.

[This bit has to be done with a light touch. It is not an attempt to overthrow the show's heretofore-rational portrayal of Sherwood, it is only to add a slight kicker to it in this episode. Which is easily done, as Guy's day should play more than a little like that of a fairy tale.]

* * *

**Calais, France -** Marian's chambers. Things here are much as they were before. It is nearing afternoon, so the fading winter light shows us. Marian continues to labor, with Salima as her only company.

**Tristan:** [through the door] Halloo the Lady Salima! I bring another message for you.

**Salima:** I am not opening the door, Tristan. What passes within is hardly the stuff for young boys. You may tell Her Majesty the Queen my lady labors hard, but well, and she will be first told when the event occurs.

**Tristan:** I come not on behalf of the Queen.

**Salima: **Then tell King Philip he may again see my lady in a weeks' time, but she may not respond to his bidding just today. Today she works to serve Coeur-de-Lion alone.

**Tristan: **[his voice, perhaps, quieter than his earlier town crier mode] It is Llanio on whose behalf I seek you.

**Salima: **What, again? If I cannot leave today at the demands of either a Queen or a King, think you I am to appear at the bidding of a lowly Court minstrel? And a rather pitiable excuse for one, at that?

**Tristan: **He does respect your obligations, milady, and bade me come only to tell you he shall wait to see you.

**Salima: **Very well.

**Tristan:** ...in the chapel.

**Salima:** [not really taking time to process the fact that Allan has assigned himself to a long vigil of waiting in the chapel, nor the peculiarity of his doing so] Very well, very well. I must go, I am needed. Tristan?

**Tristan:** Aye?

**Salima:** You would do well to tend your Court-appointed duties more narrowly today, lest you be caught out by anyone of import, and be found to be carrying messages for the hired entertainment.

_Thinking her but a sour schoolmarm, Tristan offers her no thanks for her word of warning, and walks away pouting, feeling for sure that Lady Matilda/Marian and Llanio/Allan are easily the two most important people in the castle that day (though he cannot say why), and knowing that he has no heart, really, for serving any other._

As Tristan's steps retreat (with the appropriate-for-the-environment sound) on the castle flagstones, they begin to step in tandem to the (incompatible) sound of the crunch of boots on iced-over winter snow, until that becomes the only SFX we hear with each of his steps, until we find the true source of the sound...

* * *

**Present Time - Heart of Sherwood Forest -** In the deepest depths of Sherwood (after five-plus years, deeper than it even was in the original flashback of the day of the hanging), leeward of Locksley, so far within as to be an impractical place to visit if one had any plan to leave the forest quickly, we find present-day Robin. It is the snow crunching under _his_ boots that we hear, the sound carrying, as the winter trees about him have no leaves, and there are few pines with needled branches this close to ground.

He has gone alone to visit the spot of the hanging day flashback (though of course he could not possibly know that Marian's mind has also returned her to that day during her current travails in France).

He wanders about the patch of ground he once thought of as uniquely his, lost in his solitary reflection.

This was where he had thought he could plant an outlaw's garden: scatterings of hardy plants that needed little tending and minimal sun, growing among the weeds and tares.

The question of Marian waiting for him; what had been behind it, really? A deep desire to believe that if he left, everything at home would remain static?

A need to feel like he would still be faithful to their agreement though he was leaving?

His feelings for Marian at the time had been tricky. She was his friend (and he didn't have female friends), she was his sounding board (when no one else seemed to give much credence to anything he had to say), and his (fully-invested, often better-informed) nemesis in nearly any argument. She took him, his ideas, his very existence, entirely seriously.

These things, perhaps more than anything else about her, had spoken to him, had held his interest where the other (the many, many other) girls could not.

And yet, she was daughter to Nottingham's powerful Sheriff, growing prettier (and physically more womanly) every day; as if in response to these changes, her life and freedom being ever more caged. The notion that he might have some ability (some domain) where alleviating her confined existence was concerned, this had moved (and nearly impassioned) him.

Marian was not made like him-more able to tolerate authority's hold, to find escape to freedom when he could; but then her father, the Sheriff, was not his. Edward of Knighton had proven himself in recent years to prefer a short leash on his daughter, one at which Robin himself would surely have chafed and bit long ago (perhaps not unlike Marian's disinherited, dead brother Clem).

Her (in Robin's mind, unjust) oppression (and her oft-banked fire within wishing to oppose it), this plight moved him far more than an endless buffet of fine eyes, swaying hips and flattering tongues ever could.

As happily as Robin had spent most days before Crusade, in his memory of those several years spanning his betrothal, his happiest moments were those in which he was able to bring happiness to Marian and break her out (or encourage her to break herself out) of the small sphere of life circumscribed for her.

Leaving for Crusade with Richard would mean (for a time, Robin had thought, _only for a time_) abandoning Marian to her father and his restrictive and exacting devices. Upon his, Robin's, triumphant return he was certain he would have a chance to more than make up for the time apart. So he had told himself. So he had reasoned.

But his mind _had_ been clouded by glory, fogged by the resultant high of making his own decision. His belief in Richard he would never second-guess, but allowing himself to trust too strongly in a Cause not of England's concern, a Cause steered by self-proclaimed holy men of the Church, and frustrated veterans now in powerful positions soured by the Christians' loss of Jerusalem? That misjudgment he would regret, perhaps always.

The best he could reconcile with himself on the point was that he had been young, untried and inexperienced in the wider world, and something in him had strongly wished to discover a purpose for himself (beyond his father's ambition for him). Even an Earl could not overthrow a vow one had made to the King, once it had been done. And so it had been an exquisite act of rebellion: to give his life into Richard's keeping rather than letting his father have the run of it.

Soldiering in Richard's army, a chance to use one's life directly in the service on one's King seemed to answer and fulfill what Robin had thought himself (at the time) to be looking for: a larger meaning to the world than he had yet been shown.

But what he had discovered after five years of war was that larger meaning and greater purpose were not necessarily found in grand actions or distant vistas, and were never achieved by the killing of men.

What he had discovered (what his now-deceased earl father would have said Richard would yet do well to discover) was this: it was in the smallest of packages that humanity, larger meaning, greater purpose, lived. Parents welcoming a child; a man learning self-worth, gaining dignity through working the land; young lovers freed to marry as they chose, and live as one; and all subjects of Richard's being able to expect true and faithful justice and fair rule of law when necessary.

_And_ that the grandest purpose lay in protecting these principles for others, even as he stood here now, among Sherwood, an outlaw and wolf's-head, himself unable to depend on any one of these tenets holding true for him and his. For the nobleman who had sacrificed himself to Robin Hood was, himself, denied the life (wife, child, justice) he fought to make possible, to make universal, for others.

* * *

[Transition from Robin's present day reflections back to the hanging day flashback, just where we left off before the break, only now in Robin's point of view.]

**SCENE:** Where we left off before commercial. View of Marian's expectant face (as before the break we were viewing Robin's face). In her anticipation a slight color has sprung up in her cheeks. A small breeze disturbs tendrils of her hair, tempts them to escape the plait down her back.

"Marian," he says, his voice pleading and (as she suspected he might) throws caution to the wind; "I am for Richard, and Crusade," he announces, swiftly crossing the space between them and marrying his mouth fully to hers before she can respond, or even fully take a breath (for his announcement has surely taken away hers).

She clutches him tightly, her lips matching the fervor, the desperation, of his.

He kissed her desperately, without the use of any skill or subtlety with which his experience in the art had endowed him. He kissed her as if the act would prove more compelling than any spoken argument he might offer in explanation of his unilateral decision.

He kissed her as every soldier headed into the uncertainty of war kissed his girl. He kissed her that she might know she had well and truly been kissed. He kissed her with regret and he kissed her with optimism. He kissed her, his hands clutching her until he feared she might be bruised from the encounter.

He kissed her like a young lover for the first time and like an old sweetheart, parted from his love for many years. He kissed her until her eyes wept with the effort, with the grief of the knowledge his plans imbued in her. He kissed her as though she were his last meal, his last prayer, his last breath, and him set to hang. He kissed her, and he pulled his face away for a brief instant, his hands still to each side of her face, to look at her.

Her lips were swollen with his labors, her eyes like twin wells of despair, yet still she clung to him, even as he was the cause of her hurt, still she looked to him to fix it, still she wanted him. Even as he was the cause of her unhappiness.

[We again experience the visual version of the "scraping the needle across the record" sound. And we are returned to reality (although in this fantasy of Robin's-unlike in Marian's prior-viewers were given no clue it was not actually happening)]

Shot of Marian, no longer crying, instead she is again anticipating what show of affection might yet come from Robin.

Shot of Robin, his mind torn, standing in front of his forest hut, viewers' now better able to grasp the dilemma he suffers to sort out.

[SFX forest sounds, not quite to the humorous level of crickets chirping, but nearly]

* * *

[Transition from Robin in the past, to Robin in the present, standing in the same location.]

As for that day in the past with Marian? He had not kissed her. Could not. He had proven too spineless to tell her of his grand plan, to break their own agreement, as he was set to break with his father's will and ride away with Richard. He had spoken true when he had once told her he did not like promises, that keeping them was often complicated. Particularly for someone designed to do the bidding of a father, someone not permitted to chart his own course.

His choice to leave had been one of selfishness. His frozen inability to share it with Marian: cowardice. He knew it, but at the time he thought not too much on it.

When the news reached Robin in Portugal (via the Sheriff's other communication with the King) that Edward had terminated the betrothal, he was saddened, but not surprised.

In retrospect he had had no last kiss goodbye to dwell on, and for a long time, no desire (or time) to dwell much on Marian at all during his waking hours. But the day did come in faraway Palestine when he found his memory had clung to other, less significant kisses he had shared with Marian, though they were, all-told, not many.

Robin bent at the shoulders to enter the now-skeleton of a hut he had once boyishly contemplated (without logic, without common sense) as a possible home.

The disastrously done thatch had long ago felled the roof supports (such as they had been). The low walls remained here and there in fragments, as though someone had left off building an animal pen.

"I should have kissed her more," he said aloud, to the lingering ghosts of the past, to the spot where she had stood, her sixteen-year-old face begging him to do so. Such a small thing to give into, that kiss. Yet such a large, large thing, too. "I should never have stopped kissing her."

_Bad decisions_, thought Robin Hood (going to war, incompletely parting with and abandoning Marian), _must surely come in twos_.

_To commercial break_

* * *

**...TBC...**


	45. Her, He Could Not Live Without

_Please see Author's Profile for up-to-date notes and disclaimers ._

* * *

_Return from commercial break_

**Present Day - Calais, France -** Just before a contraction ends, Salima seeks to distract Marian from the pain, and perhaps to add to her own growing understanding (and insatiable-though repressed-curiosity) about this peculiar affliction Marian suffers from: true love of a man.

**Salima:** Tell me more of life with Sir Robin. Did you love him, even then, and he you?

**Marian:** [not quite out of the pain yet, her answer begins more like a series of grunts] I. Loved. Him. If I. Had not. He could not. Have hurt me so. [breathes in as the pain lifts momentarily] But I have, I think, [speaking slowly as she comes out of the haze of stress] come to understand that love, like life, has stages. And being in love at fifteen is not love at twenty-five. I loved him as much as I could have loved or understood anyone at that time. But I do not think that that love would have lasted, unblemished and unbruised, had he stayed and we married as planned.

_Salima looks quizzical, Marian so often seems to espouse belief in the everlasting-ness of love._

**Marian:** I will never say he should have gone to Crusade, not that it was necessary, nor that it was good. But, it was. That is, it happened, and it is the feelings built, _re-built_, on that original foundation that we have. And that, that will endure. [blushes even through her labor-heat and sweat, over waxing so philosophical, though it is easy to do with Salima such an eager listener.]

**Salima:** And how did you know?

**Marian:** That I loved him? Because...of the intensity of everything around me he touched. I was never happier, I was never sadder. It was like eating the best food, but eating the same alongside Robin it seemed somehow even better. He was like a spice I longed to add to anything I did. And when I was sad, and I was for such a long, long time, and he was not there, it was the saddest I had ever been. It was like every sense I had died. I saw nothing to interest me, I felt no warmth and tasted nothing with flavor. Every color was grey and every conversation without meaning. And because he had gone (rejected me, I had to assume), I had no reason to believe, no hope that these small pleasures would ever return to me again. I believed myself doomed to the barest of existence.

**Salima:** [whispers] Fated.

**Marian:** But I dare say these feelings and thoughts are different for every person, for every situation between lovers is singular, don't you suppose?

**Salima:** [ignores the question: she wouldn't know how to answer it anyway][prompting, knowing the next pain is coming soon] And he loved you?

**Marian:** [ruefully exhaling-how many times in the past has she dissected that question?] I have not thought on that question in a long time. [takes breath] I'm going to be generous, here. I think it must be harder for a man, harder to understand his own heart. And I think it often frightens them, perhaps especially when they are young. Certainly they are not taught to follow their hearts, or grant them much authority. I think he was very fond of me, I think he would have married me. Robin has a strong pole star to happiness, and he will find it in nearly any situation. But you must recall, I was still not only just his choice, I was the earl's and my father's. And Robin chose to break with their control over his choices in life. And so he picked Crusade, his own path, his own escape, over their choice, which was me. Can you do that when you really, truly and unselfishly love a person? Love them more than yourself?

**Salima:** [not sure of the right answer] Perhaps a heart will not tolerate such a decision for long, and like in the stories and legends it will break, and start to die.

**Marian:** If we had married then, I think that what small happiness we might have had would have been hampered shortly thereafter by our characters not yet being formed, by behaviors we had not curtailed, or yet learned to govern, that would have damaged our relationship, caused us to grow bitter and dissatisfied. He would have longed for adventure and left me to find it. I, his wife, would have found myself jealous of his disappearing into Sherwood for days until I became the cause of it. And he would have found himself with a wife soaked in despair, as her choices in life, her sphere of existence progressively narrowed, for I don't think even he could have stopped that. If Robin had not gone away I would not have come to know myself, come to chart my own path, I would only have been a wife with a liberal husband, depending on him for my every freedom, my every self-expression. And I would have resented it. And would there have been a Nightwatchman? A Robin Hood? Mind you, this is what I say now. It is not what I would have said then. What I would have said then..._Arrgh!_ [and she is taken by another labor pain]

_These are Marian's thoughts on the subject. They are not necessarily Robin's. In fact, they are probably not at all Robin's. Nor are they meant to stand as 100% accurate and unbiased. They are her thoughts, the thoughts of a girl who has gotten past (but not forgotten) the painfulness of being jilted and abandoned._

As Marian's labor becomes more intense, [as I have shared before] her memories become more rushed and far less pleasant. And they are no longer shared aloud with Salima, as Marian has to retreat into her own mind to endure this bearing down stage leading to the birth.

* * *

**Flashback - road out of Nettlestone - Pre-Crusade -** Robin and Much ride into the night, bound for Lincoln, where Robin will 'take the Cross', the outward sign of his vow, and his final act necessary to join Richard's Holy Crusade to reclaim Jerusalem from the Turk.

Unlike others of the barons have for their sons, the Earl has refused to throw Robin an elaborate, shield-beatingly patriotic send-off party, instead sharing a modest farewell (which proved cordial and sincere, if not contented) quietly at Locksley Manor. He still hopes his son will repent his decision before arriving in Lincoln and allow him to pay a scutage (a tax nobles could pay in lieu of military service) so that Robin might avoid the war.

Robin and Much are traveling, companionably, making use of the two mounts Robert, the Earl, promised and provided them.

**Robin:** I am turning back.

**Much:** What? No! Remember Lock's wife!

**Robin:** [correcting him] Lot's.

**Much:** What?

**Robin:** [with greater emphasis] _Lot's_.

**Much:** [clueless] Oh, you remember her lots. Well, then you should recall it is bad luck, a bad omen to look back once you have left on a journey!

**Robin:** [patiently, but with a tint of snide] No, she is known as Lot's wife. Not Lock's.

**Much:** [blushing in the night] Oh.

**Robin:** And I hardly think Knighton equal to Sodom and Gomorrah. Think you it is so wicked, Much?

**Much:** Knighton? Oh, let us not go there.

_A beat passes and Robin must announce (in truth) that his horse has thrown a shoe. They will have to disturb the Nettlestone smithy (the nearest) to have it re-shod._

[Robin is not aware, though the suspicion will occur to him later, that this was pre-planned by his father, in order to give his son every possible chance to recant his desire to leave.]

**Much:** [whispering] A bad omen.

_Leaving Much in Nettlestone to supervise the smith's work, Robin sets off in the darkness for Knighton, in actuality not certain what he will find there. As the Sheriff, Edward is there only occasionally, and Marian is not often there anymore, certainly not since her refining trip to Guildford (Edward prefers her to be under his watchful eye at Nottingham Castle). The Hall is chiefly used for judgment days when Edward personally comes to hear any grievances of his villeins, and country parties held for the nobility in the summer, when Nottingham and its castle begin to smell in the heat._

What Robin does not know is that in the wake of the lords holding a particularly large summit at the castle (many attending from distant estates who are so rarely seen as to rarely sit on the Council of Nobles), Marian has been sent for the duration to Knighton, so that her castle chambers may be used to help house the visiting barons.

At least that is the official reason. Unofficially, Edward has gotten wind, via servants' gossip, that Robin is set to leave and follow Richard. Edward has grilled Marian several times over as to whether she had any knowledge of Robin's plans to join Crusade (which of course she had not). Her reaction to the news, unknown, unguessed at by her, and completely out of left field, has put her in a state not fit for company.

In Nottingham castle, Edward of Knighton, the current Sheriff, is beside himself, nearly apoplectic over the news of Robin's imminent departure. He is absolutely planning to confront Robert, Earl of Huntingdon about it. (The Earl, again in the hopes of giving Robin all possible chance to change his mind, has shared his son's decision with no one outside Locksley Manor).

**SCENE:** Knighton Hall, a familiar perch, on the window ledge of Marian's upstairs bedroom. It is night and the sounds of the barn animals settling in and the forest waking up are to be heard by those who might listen.

Within the house, some movement takes place, as Marian's coming was unexpected, and with their lord's daughter at home much must be accomplished before breaking their fast tomorrow. Robin is nimbly seated, watching Marian in her bed, sleeping. Her back is to him. In this pose, he brings to mind something of Peter Pan.

He came here like this, to occupy this seat from time to time. He took the risk when he knew Marian was home. Tonight he had simply gotten lucky. (_Fah, bad omen, Much?_ he thought) He would sit here in the darkness, able to see Marian asleep in the moonlight, and muse on his future, on the nights to come when such a thing as 'their' bed would exist, when he would be able to watch her sleep anytime, at his leisure.

It was as though he was trying on his future, like a coat not yet tailored to him. Had he grown into it yet? Had he outgrown it?

He would count her inhalations, then switch and count her exhales. He would attempt marrying his own breathing to hers, to wonder what her dreams were about. To wonder if he could do this thing; to be a husband. Perhaps the answer would be clearer to him when he returned from the wars. Perhaps that coat would fit more appropriately, chafe and worry him less.

He hoped to be knighted by Richard. He hoped to serve his King well, and admirably. He hoped, that in slightly bending Edward and the Earl's vow to one another that he might come away from this experience he had chosen a man who might learn how one was to keep a promise, how one was to make only promises worth keeping. And to be forever free of others making such pledges for him.

Very well, he would wake her. He would tell her he was going. Perhaps he could do it now, without letting her response to his declaration, the cast her eyes would take on, the tone her voice would choose, not letting her reaction deter his resolve.

He made a move to enter the room.

**Gwyn, Knighton's chatelaine:** [warning, but with respect] I would not do so, were I you, Master Robin.

_He had not seen her there, hidden in the darkest corner of the room, at her knitting._

**Gwyn:** The Sheriff has his men out for you tonight. If they find you they are to bring you to the castle. I should not wish to needs call them up from the kitchens.

**Robin:** Why should the Sheriff worry on my account?

**Gwyn:** Why, he believes you have wronged his daughter. He believes you have compromised Marian. It is lucky I am that as many times as you two have spirited away under my nose that he has not turned his wrath to me, and released me from my position-or had me flogged.

_Their voices are low, Robin following Gwyn's lead, as she does not wish to wake Marian._

**Robin:** Gwyn, you know me...

**Gwyn:** As does the Sheriff, hence his anger.

**Robin:** I mean to say, in all seriousness, and on my very honor, I have never [in response to Gwyn's look of skepticism], _never_ touched Marian in any way that her father-or mine-might find inappropriate.

**Gwyn:** You do realize it is hard to believe, knowing what is commonly said of your roguish ways, my young lord?

_Robin rolls his eyes in exasperation at her reference to his reputation, which until now has never hampered any aspect of his life._

**Robin:** Marian's [changes his reference to her thinking it might help his case]-my lady's-modesty and innocence are all the currency she has in this world, after Knighton itself, and that only if the Sheriff will grant it her. I have endeavored to guard the safekeeping of her virtue from all comers-including, in weak moments, myself. I swear to you now, Gwyn: she is as much a maid as the day she was born.

**Gwyn:** What did you two get up to in the woods all those times, then?

**Robin:** [seriously] I have kissed Marian, _that is all_.

**Gwyn:** And so you plan to leave her?

**Robin:** I have made my vow to go. I have given the King my word.

**Gwyn:** But you do not regret it.

**Robin:** I would make a poor vassal if I did so, and a sorrier soldier, I should think.

**Gwyn:** God be with you, Master Robin. I shall say prayers for you come Sunday. I shall say _particular_ prayers that you might return quickly to take your position as my lady's husband, and Knighton's future lord.

**Robin:** [inclining his head to Marian, her back still to him] She sleeps peacefully.

**Gwyn:** [lying] She sleeps well.

_He does not know what to do next. It is unlikely that Gwyn will risk leaving Marian and him alone to talk, or say goodbye. He stirs from the window ledge, one boot in the room, when both he and Gwyn hear movement on the stair: heavy boots. Edward's men, tasked with finding Robin to bring to Nottingham and their master, to answer for his behavior, are coming to search Marian's chamber._

Robin spooks, not wanting to be caught half-way in Marian's bedroom (which would certainly be hard to dismiss when a father thinks you're compromising his daughter anyway), nor wishing to be dragged back to Nottingham. He bolts into the night, back to Nettlestone, Much, and his new-shod horse.

Marian, never waking, never saw him there.

Gwyn, attempting to do what she thought was best in the situation (and hoping to protect her own position, as she had not cried out at Robin's appearance) never told that she had encountered Robin that night.

In the half-dark of the room, Robin never saw the pillowcase under Marian's cheek: soaked from hot tears. She had wept herself to sleep, not ceasing until her total exhaustion put an end to it.

In his twenty-year-old zeal, his desire to set out on his adventure, his life, Robin had never for a moment thought it would prove five long years (and battles and wounds and suffering and being the cause of suffering, and more death than he could tally) before he again glimpsed Marian's face.

* * *

**Present Day - Sherwood Forest -** Sir Guy of Gisborne walks the forest, searching. He does not care that he is lost, and has left a ridiculously circular track behind him, nor that his footprints would be child's play to follow in the snow. He does nothing to conceal them, for he wishes to be caught, to be discovered and to encounter an outlaw. For any outlaw, he believes, will ultimately lead him to the prize.

Time seems to have altered for him. Falling snow seems to hang longer in the air before landing. His mind tells him he may have been at this mission for only hours, or months. His full-battle chain mail is heavy, but his fractured senses tell him it is warm. His desire is constant and still motivating. More than once he feels eerily as though he has stepped into a legend, taken on the character of someone in a myth. He is not quite himself, anymore, and the world, this world of Sherwood that envelops him, is no longer familiar, not in its appearance, not in its landscape, not in its disobedience to natural laws.

He feels as though he has become only 'a knight', without name, following a quest whose desired outcome he no longer recalls.

[There is a surreality at play here. As though Gisborne has taken a mind-altering substance, but rather than an upper, more of a downer-something that slows the pace of time and causes what he sees to become a bit more storybook, though not in a cutesy-way. Perhaps something more like you might find in the film Legend. (Though it's been a long time since I've seen that, and I'm not sure it's an entirely apt reference.)] Colors are different, deeper, his vision of what surrounds him in the forest is that of a person expecting to encounter a satyr behind any tree, a nest of faery folk wintering among the low evergreen bushes. None of this would surprise him. And Sherwood seems to breathe, to embody a sentience. [Perhaps more along the line of Lucy's first steps into the Narnian wilderness by Lantern Waste, or something from Terry Gilliam's The Brothers Grimm film.]

He comes to a stream, still running, as the sound of it can be heard through fissures in the ice appearing here and there. It is too deep to cross easily, as the ice will not hold him, and too cold to attempt, especially in his mail.

There is a large felled tree several yards up stream, and he moves toward it to cross, ignoring the treacherous ice that coats its bark.

As he places one foot on the log bridging the stream, a deep rumble from the other bank gets his attention. He looks up. Standing there is the notorious outlaw and dead-man John Little, but in his heavy winter coat and bushy winter beard, his boots wrapped over and again with rags to keep his feet warm in the cold, he does not look human to Gisborne.

He sees not what should be a man, an outlaw, guarding a crossing, but what appears to him to be a beast half-giant, half-dragon, the frozen breath coming out of its mouth turning into blue fire, its eyes wild with hunger for manflesh.

He will kill this beast. It is what a knight, even a knight without name, would do.

[In a moment of reality, we hear and see Little John, now perfectly normal, if a bit hairy and clothed for the elements. He calls out Gisborne (Gisborne only hears a growl).]

The knight rushed, without hesitancy, onto the icy log, his sword at the ready, and engaged the beast in combat, his steel to the giant/dragon hybrid's wood and fire.

[Gisborne and Little John come to blows on the log, Little John yells and gruffly taunts Gisborne, but Sir Guy is utterly silent, like an automaton of efficiency. And it becomes apparent to viewers very quickly that as good as Little John is with a staff and his brute strength, he is no match for an armored swordsman with literally nothing else on earth to lose.]

* * *

**Present Day - Locksley Village - on the edge of Sherwood -** Robin has come to look over his estate. The village has all but been dismantled in the wake of the departure of the Sheriff's mercenaries (which, after the second unsuccessful attempt to kill the King, he could no longer continue to afford to pay). Very few of the buildings carpentered by Dan Scarlet are left standing (mercenaries are also very hard on hotel suites, so I've heard).

The chapel has taken a particularly hard hit. If you recall it had been converted from a consecrated house of worship into a storage shed for goods and makeshift cafeteria.

The village has been unable to run without workers and skilled laborers, and certainly the restoration of the peasantry to their prior homes has been far from a prominent "thing-to-do" on Sir Guy's list.

It is a ghost town, nearly (save the presence of tumbleweed). Only the cold of winter has brought villagers back from where they had attempted to shelter in the outskirts of Sherwood.

Robin mills about among those outskirts, able to see what small activity there is in the village this day: several tracks to the communal well, and back to certain houses. Someone looking in on a barn.

There was a time he could have named every family, down to the youngest babe, in any house here. When he (coached by his father) could have recounted the worth of any man's labor, as well as the livelihoods that any of the boys nearing the age of majority might realistically contemplate.

Aye, but his father, though not given to fits of humor, would have laughed. That after all these years his son wished to put his head into the estate's books, to embrace the mundane facts about these people, his villeins and serfs, yeoman and tenants, when all those years ago he had fought so hard against it. Robin Hood would give much to know such a complete history and accounting of the people huddled 'round Locksley hearths today.

He thought on his father, the Earl, at how he, Robin, had not known what to expect he might feel about reentering Locksley after Crusade, his father buried in his absence. Huntingdon reborn in him, the son.

He had, perhaps, had a small sliver of fear in his heart, that he would not truly feel it his. That it would seem, still, his father's domain, his father's passion and responsibility. And he, a stranger.

But he had been wrong. With only one hand drawn across the flowering hay and tender branch buds of early Spring his whole being had agreed: this was his. And if his father was behind that feeling, so be it. The good Earl had, in the end, accomplished what he had desired to all along; to endow his son with the same sense of duty, of obligation to the land and its people.

Robert, the old Earl of Huntingdon had tied that knot tightly, though Robin had chafed at it at the time. And a spell on Crusade, and even now, this period of outlawry did nothing to loosen the binding.

He had come back home to the same responsibilities he had left-even he had come home to Marian-though he had not been sure to find her, still, just Marian. He was changed, surely, he was older, he knew more of himself, of others. Was that wisdom? Of a kind, he supposed.

And Marian? He had told himself often enough over the years of his absence from the East Midlands that the girl he sometimes saw unexpectedly (but thankfully) in visions, in daydreams, no longer existed. She would be a full-woman now, a wife, and mother, chatelaine of her own house. She would have filed him away with silly girlish notions of her past: a once-cherished ribbon from a long ago admirer, a now-pressed wildflower first picked in a moment of happiness, the aged pit of a Grecian olive, split by an arrow and secretly taken for a souvenir.

He had tried to imagine her being matronly. It had not worked. He had tried to see her as angry, still nursing a grudge for what she thought was mistreatment. Certainly that had been easier to imagine.

Robin looked to the chapel, thinking back to the day Marian was to wed Gisborne, that coerced pledge that she would do anything to keep from breaking.

_How could she be like that? Just to spite him? Just to show that she could keep her word? In an effort, perhaps, to call his bluff? To get him to counter-propose? To call in his prior claim?_

He thought back, to the uncertainty of his life, which had been the only thing he could have offered her. To the fact that she believed Gisborne (let herself believe Gisborne) over him. Back to the black, black, worst thoughts he had experienced on that day.

She had not known then that he loved her. At least he had not said it-when she could hear. The love he had professed to a dead woman. A declaration which, held as much meaning to him had she heard, but yet, she had not heard. Not the words, only the actions, the truest test of affection.

He had planned to go away. He had not fully decided where. With the return of the King he could exorcise Robin Hood, but with Marian wed to a man fully capable of, and committed to, regicide, what mattered a return to normalcy to him? He had thought to give up Nottinghamshire, to give up on, really, everything.

In a discussion after the gang's return from the Holy Land, in response to Much decrying D'Jaq and Will's staying behind, Robin had heard Allan declare, that, they, the gang, "could live without anyone." Little John had scoffed loudly in reply to the notion, Much had shut up.

The ability to live without anyone was an assertion that Robin of Locksley had found (many times, and in many situations) to be, on the whole, utterly fallacious.

And so he had found that day of the Fake King's return that he had had to go and tell Marian, as quickly as possible...that her he could not live without. That although his body might endure any amount of punishment and continue to function, his spirit had no wish to carry on without hers, its perfect mate.

And as he stands, looking at present day snow-covered Locksley, he vows to himself yet again, that with the return of Allan from France, he will find Marian (for the sake of his spirit, the sake of his purpose), and deign no longer to live without her.

As he turns to leave Locksley, he alights on a fallen branch (significantly thick enough that he would have expected it to bear his weight) from a nearby tree. It is rotten, but dryly so, and snaps and breaks under his foot as he hops off it and walks on, back into Sherwood.

[SFX of the break carries us into Marian's chambers, where our first shot is of her fireplace, and a log, aflame, falling into two pieces, the sound mimicking (if not being the same SFX) heard in Robin's scene. These two images happen all but simultaneous, so it is only one sound that we hear, the shots of the two separate scenes so close together as to nearly be split-screened.]

* * *

**Calais, France - Lady Matilda's chambers -** We are shown a shot or two of Marian and Salima, their work still constant, as Marian's labor continues.

* * *

**Calais, France - Chapel of Philip II's castle -** The light level in the chapel is running low as evening breaks. A lone friar enters and walks to the altar to light the candles that usually none other than the priest and himself see (so often vacant is the space). He is surprised to note that he is not alone. Another (he assumes) penitent soul is seated among the benches.

The fellow looks worse for wear. The man's sin and the consequences thereof must surely be keeping him awake at nights. He appears just an inch or two away from pulling at his own hair, such is his palpable anxiety.

"May I help you, my son?" the friar asked, with all good intention.

Allan-A-Dale squinted at the man, the friar, who was intruding on his solitude, and gave fair consideration to the man's offer. Deciding against his help was no difficult decision: it seemed highly unlikely a man of God, a celibate at that, could offer any insight into a woman that he, himself, had not already had.

"I shall wait for Mass, Brother," he assured the man, in an effort to move him along, to speed his departure. "I shall wait."

He would have said more, only Allan-A-Dale did not know for how long he would wait. He only knew that until she showed, this chapel was his new home.

* * *

_To commercial break_

* * *

**Movie preview**: "Coming Soon to a theatre near you: Ioan Gruffudd as Jamie in Diana Gabaldon's saga of Scotland and time travel; Outlander!"  
[oh, wait, sorry, erm. _Wishful thinking_.]

**...TBC...**_the story, not the _Outlander _fantasy..._


	46. Bad Scene at the Summit

As Robin, in the past timeline, has disappeared down the Nettlestone road to Lincoln and from there to Crusade, so he does not appear in the following section, either (present or past). A bit like when astronauts end up on the dark side of the moon and out of radio communication.

* * *

**Present Day - Sherwood Forest -** Shots of Gisborne and Little John still locked in a bone-crunching brawl. Little John, bit-by-bit, seems to be losing ground on the ice-covered log that bridges the narrow source of the River Idle, as Gisborne is efficiently beating him and his staff back to the bank he started out on.

* * *

**Present Day - Calais, France - Lady Matilda's chambers -**

We grow ever-closer to the moment of delivery, and the hardest work is now upon Marian. Her hair is wet with the sweat of effort and exertion and is curling against her face. She grasps at Salima, seated for the moment behind her on the bed, her back to the wall so that Marian may lie back against her and her open legs, knees propped up for handholds. Both women face the camera in this way, and Salima has already seen (and been encouraged by) what we see now; though Marian is lost in effort and pain, her eyes, those eyes that Robin would recognize anywhere (even in an Holy Land hallucination) are bright and determined. She is fully up to the task at hand.

Somehow, through her screams (which she had doubted early on would prove needed) Marian falls, falls into the memory of the night of her father's shouts of rage over his impotence in the wake of Robin's unannounced departure.

* * *

**SCENE:** Swimmy-vision shot as Marian, woozily, through pain, recalls her father's grilling of her as to whether she knew of (and concealed) Robin's plans.

The memory is shown as directly through her eyes, the eyes of someone who has tears threatening to spill out and who (due to the shock of the news) is on the precipice of fainting.

"Joe!" the Sheriff calls for Joe Lacey, one of Nottingham's Castle Guard. "See that she is taken to Knighton." In his anger, he refers to Marian as he might a common dungeon prisoner. "Perhaps she will find herself more willing to confess to her sins in the morning." Turning back to Marian, [the shot still swimmy and listing] "When I have found Robin-and I will-he shall answer for this-" he splutters, "this flummery!"

Edward settles his robes about himself. He must regain his composure, as he is needed to begin welcoming his arriving guests.

**The night Robin leaves for Crusade - Nottingham Castle -** [Do not ask me why he leaves at night. He just does. I know it doesn't make much sense.] The lords are holding a particularly large summit at the castle. Many are in attendance from distant estates who are so seldom seen as to rarely sit on the Council of Nobles, tending only to visit Nottingham quarterly to square away their taxes and other matters of state and suzerainty.

All are gathered in the Great Hall, where Edward, the Sheriff of Nottingham, has thrown a flawless evening feast with food and wine aplenty, and the best entertainments the castle has seen in nearly a decade.

After all, the time is near that he will be needing to re-purchase his appointment from the new King, and any extra money or support from the local barons at such a time will surely not go amiss when he submits his bid. So the occasion is equally social, governmental, and political. [It is an ethically messy situation. You might think of it as a fund-raising dinner for a political campaign. A schmooze-fest, held in tandem with a special session of Congress (which, of course, would never be allowed).]

Allow me to introduce the room, from highest rank to least:

The top slot here is occupied in a sort of tie between Edward, and Robin's father.

_Edward of Knighton, the Sheriff of Nottingham_, who wields the most power (who himself is a man who married into an elevated status and purchased his knighthood, and those of his dead sons') due to his King-appointed position over the entire shire. Through his deceased wife he possesses Knighton Hall and village and the small hamlet nearby, Clun.

_Robert, Earl of Huntingdon_, who holds both an Earldom and is lord of Locksley Manor and village, Nettlestone village, Bonchurch Lodge and its small settlement of homes, and the isolated village of Wadlowe.

Robert's total estate is vast in acreage and population compared to the other noble holdings in the shire. This makes him the most endowed noble, and certainly an influential one, whose position is not dependent on the whim of the King, nor the amount of money he can supply his sovereign in an attempt to buy clout and authority. As the second Earl of Huntingdon, these things are considered his by right.

Without Edward of Knighton's advantageous marriage through which he acquired wealth and position, _he_ would fall to the lowest noble rank of knight. It is something Edward rarely lets himself forget. (Believing, perhaps erroneously, that others also never forget.) And he will work and labor to maintain his own position in the world, as well as machinate to ensure his daughter, and his de facto descendants are permanently installed as high up in the nobility as possible.

Sitting at table is _Viscountess Glasson_ (referenced by Marian in "Parent Hood"). She is the mother of Liss (from #42 "We Begin Episode 11") and two older boys. Lady Glasson is a widow, and sits on the Council as a mere formality due to her rank and the fact that she is occupying the seat in escrow for her twin sons, both serving at present in Richard's army.

She never speaks at Council meetings unless directly addressed, which is rare. Sometimes she is accompanied by Liss, who also remains silent (and, truth be told, bored).

_Sir Wilfred, a Baron_, and father of Gamien (returned from the wars with only half his left leg). Sir Wilfred's lands are adjacent to Barnsdale Forest, encompassing the church and nearby village of the same name.

_Walter, Lord of Merton, a baronet_. You may recall him as one of the nobles plotting with Edward in "A Clue: No". It is unclear where Merton is located (or, in fact, how it is spelled). Or, further, if it is a place or a designation. Bor, another casualty of Crusade, is his son.

_Sir Reginald, an hereditary knight_ (and so his son Sim will one day be). He owns Treeton Village and operates the mine, making him a rich (if far from beloved) landlord. He is known as the lowest common denominator of noble where his behavior is concerned.

His village is mis-managed and its serfs often treated less-well than the fruits of his mine. The village is populated with once-free peasants who had been jailed over their unpayable back-rents and debts. Sir Reginald bought them out of their penury, settling their accounts with their respective overlords, thus enslaving entire families to him, and a lifetime (here, sometimes very short) of work in his mine.

_Sir Elton Loughborough, an hereditary knight_ who still occupies a spot on the Council in "Will You Tolerate This?". His holdings, south of Nottingham, share his name. He is father to Regina, Robin's one-time Christmas kissing companion (from #42 "We Begin Episode 11").

_Gareth of Granville_, Arth's father (Arth now dead to Richard's wars), who oversees, in a position of secular stewardship on behalf of the Church, Kirklees Abbey and neighboring village. He is untitled and is not a knight of any degree. His 22-year-old daughter, Juley, is a novice at the Abbey.

_Joderrick the bailiff_ (still on the job in "Who Shot the Sheriff?") is also present, to assist Edward in any way needed.

Fann's elderly father, the manager-in-residence at Bonchurch, simply works for Robert, the Earl, and so has no standing here and does not meet with the Council. Nor is he present.

Other nobles are in attendance (such as the lords' ladies and widowed mothers who have no voice here), but these are the major players.

The present moment is a social one: a meal and the time immediately following.

**SCENE:** The feast was lavish, the entertainments (just beginning), skilled. The nobles are feeling contented, amused, and pleased.

Except Edward, who cannot seem to settle himself, far beyond mere attentiveness to his guests and their needs, for the Earl of Huntingdon has not yet shown up, and he is, truly, the only noble the fuming-to-distraction Edward wishes to see.

When Robert, Earl of Huntingdon, does enter late, he is greeted warmly by the male barons, and deferentially by the wives and widows present at table. He is, as you will recall, a man men would like to be, and a man beside whom women should like to find themselves.

But such is not the reception he receives as he approaches Edward at the high table. Marian's seat, beside her father's, is noticeably vacant.

**Edward of Knighton, Sheriff of Nottingham:** [gets off the first shot, not very well disguised as concern] You are quite tardy. I trust you are well. [archly] Robin, surely, has not fallen ill.

**Robert, Earl of Huntingdon:** [ignoring his host's uncharacteristic lack of cordiality][genuinely troubled] I am surprised to see Marian's seat empty. I had wished to speak to her this night. Please allow me to inquire as to her health.

**Edward:** My daughter is in [emphasis] _excellent_ health.

_The Earl has waited until the last possible moment to make Robin's decision known. He has given Robin every possible chance to recant._

**Earl:** [trying to do this right] Edward, I would speak with you in private.

**Edward:** [his voice increases in volume. Those closest perk up their ears (as he means them to)] I fear it is too late for that.

**Earl:** I do not see how.

**Edward:** This has become a matter for the Council.

**Earl:** Is this not yet a matter simply between two old friends?

_Edward's outrage has progressed to a level of antagonism toward Robert, the Earl, so that he reacts well beyond the parameters of a private conversation had in a public place. There is no longer any need for the other nobles to eavesdrop now. The discussion proceeds in full voice. Even the entertainers have stowed their instruments and juggling implements._

**Edward:** Breach of promise is a very serious matter, both socially and judicially.

**Earl:** [astonished] Breach of promise? Robin has gone to join Richard's Holy Crusade. He has broken no promises in doing so. He will marry Marian when he returns as agreed, as contracted and planned. [reasonably] He will hardly be the first solider to go to war with a fiance at home. Betrothals are not broken by sheer distance, nor by geographical separation of the two parties. Myself, I had not even met my Tuxford-born lady-wife before our wedding day. That proved no impediment to the treaty our fathers' brokered on the match. And you, Edward. All here will recall that in the early days of your marriage Lady Knighton spent much time away at Court, yet it proved no hindrance to your marriage vows or your care of her, surely.

**Edward:** [unmoved, even by mention of his dead wife] Men do not return from Richard's wars.

_A jagged gasp is heard from Viscountess Lady Glasson. Several lords with dead soldiers of Richard's for sons exchange knowing glances._

**Edward:** I will not have Marian affianced to a dead man, ruining any chances she might have to make another alliance while waiting for news of his death to reach us.

_Gareth of Granville casts a significant look in their direction. It is not a kindly one. His daughter, Juley (now a postulant at Kirklees Abbey) was contracted to Edward's second son, Clem, at the time of his departure for a soldier, and later-reported death._

**Earl:** [hurt that Edward has so coldly predicted Robin's death] Not all men die on Crusade. Richard himself has managed to endure.

**Edward:** [personally affronted on behalf of Edrick and Clem. He chooses to hear in the Earl's words a diminution of them.] You are so convinced of Robin's specialness, are you not? Nothing can touch him-not _your_ son, the only, the precious heir to Huntingdon.

_The Earl is not used to being spoken to this way, not by anyone._

Edward at present is not his usual self. He is motivated by intense fear, and a feeling of his tightly regimented world (in which he rules supreme) being set a-tilt. He has good reason; his two sons (and many other sons of nobles in the room) followed Richard never to return.

The betrothal between Marian and Robin is his biggest play to increase his influence, his social standing (dwarfing even the negotiations needed to bring his own advantageous marriage about) to date.

**Earl:** [quietly] Only a week ago I thought you, too, shared my pride in him.

**Edward:** It does not matter. _It does not matter!_ He has gone to die for his king. I wonder that you, yourself, are not more outraged at his actions. That you did not prevail in the curtailing of them!

**Sir Reginald:** [speaking up] _That_ is where the horsewhip may come in handy. If you've the stomach for it.

_This nasty suggestion brings the room and all within it to a halt. A moment of awkward silence passes, as all who are not gawping at Sir Reginald (mostly the women) are carefully avoiding eye contact with Sim, Sir Reginald's own son._

**Earl:** [passing over the unwelcome comment as one might an ill-timed belch][with resignation] We have lost him, Edward, for a time. Upon his return, all will be made right.

**Edward:** [bringing to bear all of Michael Elwyn's considerable Shakespearean might] **NO!** I _shall_ have her wedded, titled, bedded and bred. Or you shall not have her at all!

**Earl:** [evenly, but a bit dangerously; not to be crossed] I will not have him marry in haste. If you bring him here tonight to do this thing, I shall stand against it.

**Edward:** [as if, 'aha!'] You, too, fear his death! Fear Marian's power as his widow.

**Earl:** And _you_ sound of a man desperate only to gain a hold over Huntingdon. [righteously] This is not the man I wished to unite my household with. Why should _your_ child receive what is by rights entailed to _my_ heir?

**Loughborough:** [adding fuel to the fire] And what if he has despoiled her?

**Walter, Lord of Merton:** [who perhaps knows something of dealings where bastard-making (and his wild-oat-sowing son Bor) are concerned][to Loughborough] Only time will out on that accounting. [shakes head] The girl will not talk.

**Sir Reginald:** [attempting to be helpful, but enjoying the suggestion] You could always torture the appointed chaperone until she speaks...

**Earl:** [sighing at the dirtiness of even having to address such an unsavory matter: of course he would do what is right] I shall take care of Marian should any such proofs come to light.

**Edward:** [almost silkily, his tone again dropping to one-on-one conversation] Take care of her now, Robert. We shall perform the ceremony here, tonight, by proxy-fulfilling all in our contract.

**Earl: **[misunderstanding] I shall not have Robin married by proxy!

**Edward:** No, Robert. _You_. [now calm, selling it] Marian could prove a boon to you, an helpmeet and companion while Robin is away at the wars...

**Earl:** [reaching his breaking point with this argument and unpleasant scene] STOP! She is _a child_. I will not wed a child, Edward. Not yours [his eyes sweep the room] nor _anyone's_. [some eager faces fall]

**Edward:** She could give you other sons. [meaning: should Robin, your heir, die]

**Earl:** [dangerously, we've seen a similar reaction in Robin, like he is standing over the abyss of tunnel-vision fury. This is where he gets it] You push **too hard**, Edward. The betrothal of. our. _children_. Stands. They will wed upon Robin's return. [precise and sometimes clipped-there is a lot of spitting as he enunciates] As for your interest in my own marital aspirations, and your unsubtle and indecorous suggestion that Robin shall be killed and I shall be in need of another heir, lest my line lose Huntingdon? Please be informed that Robin, commonly known as Robin of Locksley, is my heir, my only child and shall remain so, as _any_ designs I may have ever had on re-marriage have this very night been purged by your display of grasping greed in reference to the subject of holy wedlock. [on the dais, he turns away from the high table to address the room] Lords, Ladies [small bow], do forgive me if I take my leave of you. It would appear that my presence and my son's lack of such have discomfited your host. I shall return in time for tomorrow's Council. [exits platform and makes a beeline for the doors. Several lords attempt to flag him down on his way out (either to offer their support or argue for Edward's position), he waves them off, increasing his determined pace.] [growls, fiercely but loudly] _Someone_, saddle my horse!

* * *

**Present Day - Calais, France - Lady Matilda's chambers -**

**SCENE:** More of the same action as before. [Dude, it takes a long, long time to have a baby]

**Marian:** Salima, should I die, should something happen to me, take my child.

**Salima:** You must not speak this way. Kismet can be a capricious thing. I have seen it. What will be will be. You are proving strong...

**Marian:** [cuts her off, she has not much time before another pain takes her] You must take Robin's child. You must hide the baby, keep it from the Queen, from Richard, even, if you must. Promise me. Vow to me now that our child, Robin's child, will not be alone in this world. Nor a ward or pawn of Eleanor-even unto Richard. Yes, even unto your King.

**Salima:** You seek to protect the child from the King? But you gave your own life to save the Lionheart! [bewildered] Yet you fear Him so?

**Marian:** Fear Him? [her tone reasonable] No, in truth I think I hate Him. I am more jealous of Him than any creature living or dead. He took my brother from me, and my father chose to serve Him to the detriment of myself and my life repeatedly. The day I was to marry a man capable of killing the King-and far worse-my father chose to safeguard the Lionheart, and see me, my life, my body, my future, forfeit to Richard's needs. And even Robin. I lost him to the Lionheart once on Crusade, and I've lost my life with him now-it has been sacrificed to the very fact that His Majesty the King will not come home to England and set His affairs in order. In short, Richard Plantagenet is ruining my life, what is left of it. I have no idea what I was thinking of when I stepped in front of Him that day in Palestine.

**Salima:** I think, from all that you have told me of it, you were trying to save the world. To safeguard the continuing possibility of peace with Saladin and an end to Holy War. To save your life with Sir Robin, to rescue the people of England from cruel and jealous overlords who rule over them unchecked.

**Marian:** Was I? What a horrible mess I made of it.

**Salima:** [not agreeing with Marian's treasonous commentary about Coeur-de-Lion, but under the circumstances overlooking it][thinking of her own erratic tending-to by Richard] The King can be absentminded in His treatment of others, it is true.

**Marian:** [sincerely] I give Robin's child into your keeping. I covenant with you now that whatever choices you might make as the babe's mother, I fully support. You have my love, Salima, my unending trust and respect. [taking Salima's hand in a gesture of solidarity] Say you will do this for me. For Robin.

**Salima:** I do not know that labor-bed promises are often kept, much like deathbed oaths. But as you swear your love to me, so I will do as you ask, should it be needed. I will take the child to Sir Robin. And protect the child's life as if it were my own, or better.

_Marian's face smiles, and quickly contorts as another pain rushes in_.

* * *

**Present Day - Sherwood Forest - The log bridge over the source of the River Idle -** Little John and Gisborne fight. The breaking of John's staff by Gisborne's steel has left the big man with two uneven pieces with which to fight, like a pair of over-grown uncoupled nunchakus. But Little John is unaccustomed to the wielding of two half-staves over a single one. He is exhausting and over-heating from the effort of the battle simultaneously, and is seriously outmatched. Within a minute he surrenders his ground on the log, and the fight continues on the opposite bank Gisborne started out on, ever further into Sherwood.

Sir Guy, in his psychic break with reality, his on-going pseudo-hallucination of the day and his surroundings, has not lessened his attack, nor shown any signs of pain at any of Little John's direct hits on him (which have been many). He seems as capable and un-touched by the experience as he was at its beginning. But his field of vision is as though he wears blinders: either he has no surplus mental power to expend on anything but the battlefield, or Sherwood again plays him a trick, and conceals itself and certain of its contents from him. He sees only what is directly in front of him.

Gisborne finds himself at the point of winning [and here he does, indeed, see things as they really are], sees the opportunity to kill Little John, and takes it. He raises his sword to execute the blow, and thinks [it is perhaps his first moment of introspection in hours]: _this is Right, and Good. A trial by combat in which I am vindicated of all my sins. In which I have fought with all that is within me. In which I am victorious. And so I will leave this place, this forest and its ancient oaks, and return to the world. My life will not be whole, surely, but it will be a reconciled life, no longer a haunted life, no longer an existence of wretchedness and dread. For a knight, such a knight, could surely not win against such a man were Right not on his side_.

His sword descends, its point perpendicular to John Little's beating heart. Gisborne looks into the half-giant half-dragon's eyes, knows it understands what is to come. Knows itself powerless to stop it.

At the feeling of steel sinking into flesh the knight closes his eyes for an instant. But there is no familiar friction, no resistance of metal on bone, as the ribs would give way before the startled heart would feel his blade.

As Gisborne raises his blinkered eyes, another sword has appeared from (to him) seemingly nowhere, and has diverted his blade's trajectory at the last possible second.

The outlaw known as Little John writhes below him in agony on the snow, pierced not through the heart, his life ended, but through the upper shoulder, in a cut of graceless butchery. The wound itself not mortal, the outcome of the ensuing potential loss of blood yet to be determined.

The camera shot follows this interventional sword up to its hilt, and along the arm of the individual wielding it, in a path of revealing its owner.

The Forest is silent. Little John's grunts (as were his earlier taunts) go unheard by Sir Guy. The knight inhales, sharply.

Before Sir Guy of Gisborne stood the Nightwatchman, in a cloak impossibly whiter than the snow at their feet.

_Well_, thought Guy of Gisborne, robbed of his triumph, his eyes round with belief and acceptance. _This right. Right that she should be here. That she should be my appointed opponent in this ongoing trial by combat. That she should have been sent as God's executioner_.

Even so, he knew at such a testing he must fight for all he was worth. For his life, yea, his very Eternity, depended on it.

The camera shot makes it clear to viewers that Gisborne is not hallucinating here. This person, this Nightwatchman, is not a product solely of his enfeebled mind, for all that the figure is shown as almost too awesome in the moment to behold, even for us.

Nearly concurrently with the reveal of the Nightwatchman, the fallen log once bridging the stream, in belated action to the weight and stress it bore in the battle, cracks in the middle, breaking, its two pieces crashing through the ice below, freeing the stream. The Idle, as if in response to Sir Guy's discovery of 'absolution denied', babbles over with the cheery sound of a gurgling, giggling child.

Seemingly amused by the battle's turn of events, Sherwood chuckles. Even as the Forest's own champion, John Little lays dying, his life's blood soaking through his wooly winter coat, watering the already-fertile woodland ground.

_To commercial break_

* * *

**...TBC...**


	47. A Matter of Death

**Note:**_Please accept my apologies, the 13 of you that read this section/chapter when I posted it the other day. I was over-eager to put it up and it was not really ready. It has gained some three typed pages, and some edits, and is now ready for the world to see. If you're one of the 13, I would be so grateful if you would read it again and give it a second chance to do its job.  
In the interest of clarity, and in response to posted reviews, I have attempted to further unmuddy the ending of this section._

* * *

_Return from commercial break_

* * *

**Present Day - Calais, France - Holidaying Courts of Philip II and Eleanor of Aquitaine - Lady Matilda's chambers -** Salima laying across the bed, width-wise on her stomach so that she can see Marian's face. Marian is crouched down on the floor, knees bent, using the edge of the bed to support her upper body.

Her hands are tangled in fists among the bedclothes. As for her own clothing, in irritation of it she has long ago cast most of that off.

**Salima:** The time has come. You must push.

**Marian:** [trying, still, to get the story out] I wanted to go to a nunnery. [meaning: when Robin went to Crusade]

**Salima:** [worried. She cannot help it, she herself has had too many personal disappointments on the childbirth front] Hush, Lady. [less formally, hoping to get through] Hush, _Marian_, the time for stories is now over. Today a new chapter is written. _Push_. [trying to bring Marian back from where she swims among memories of the past, her mind hiding from present pain] _I know you_. You have the strength of ten Crusaders, a warrior-heart as big as the King's. Now push. For the sake of the child, PUSH!

**Marian:** [she is back, but defiantly so; she will get the thought out] [hollering insolently] I _wanted_ to go to a nunnery!

_But she does bear down to push, as told_.

* * *

**D.C. (During Crusade) - in the time immediately following Robin's departure - Nottingham Castle -** Edward, the Sheriff, speaks with Knighton's chatelaine, Gwyn, who has brought Marian's request to join with Holy Orders (most likely Kirklees Abbey) before him. His anger and controlling demands have not much lessened since the disastrous meeting of the Council of Nobles several days ago. Adding to his annoyance is persistent pain in his left arm, from which he can find no respite.

**Edward:** [mid-speaking]...His Crusade is no more about God than _her_ desire to go to a nunnery! [gnashes his teeth] I shall have her here, Gwyn. If she will not come on her own power, I shall have men sent for her. Henceforth, she will reside here, in the castle in plain view, where all may see.

_Edward is having a rough go of things in the wake of Robin's departure. And without a wife, or family other than Marian, he has no one with which to share his troubles and concerns. And his falling out with the Earl of Huntingdon has lost him a valuable ally and strong friend._

Consequently, Edward has fallen prey to the habit of spying to learn gossip about his own family. In the past he has always used his effective spy network to aid in performing his job as Sheriff (which it often did). But with the loss of Robin, the question of Marian and her future (the Knighton future) hanging in the balance, and the fact that even in his persistent foul mood over the present shape of things Edward knows that he acquitted himself poorly toward Robert, Earl of Huntingdon, and besmirched his own image in front of many powerful nobles, he has become obsessed with what the general populace might be saying about him and his.

The castle servants carried many tales that night, as did the lords' traveling retinues-their idle talk spreading into the far reaches of the shire. His shire. Somehow, he fears-he knows, this lapse in control of Robin and Marian has revealed a similar crack now visible in his rule over his post of Sheriff.

He has heard all the rumors, the obvious ones: Marian is with child, Marian's child by Robin has died, Robin discovered that another had despoiled Marian and Edward was trying to pass her off as a virgin, and so Robin chivalrously chose to leave town as opposed to exposing her debased state.

He has also heard the more outrageous ones: Robin did not leave for Crusade, but has disappeared into Sherwood never to be seen again (now dead or enslaved to the faeries) and the Crusader story is a face-saver concocted by Edward and the Earl, or, Robin discovered Marian consorting with the Devil in Sherwood Forest, and knew her for a witch. To save his own soul he departed immediately for Holy War, his only means to absolution.

The witchcraft allegation, thankfully, had failed to gain traction with the masses. It did not play into their endless appetite for romance among the nobility. Far better, the masses thought, was the tale of two nobles afflicted as were they, the peasantry. And so the tales of temptation, adultery, and potential bastards (born or yet gestating) persisted.

And so Edward would quash them the best he knew how. Marian would come to live full-time in Nottingham, ever on display. In a ten-month, should no babe come forth (and he was under no persuasive belief that it would), he would dissolve the marriage contract to free Marian for another of his choosing. It was easily enough done, himself acting as Sheriff and officiant.

And so this request of Marian's was (like the peasants' favorite gossip) nothing more than silly "Romance"; spurned in love (or whatever you wished to call it), take the veil, cloister oneself for a lifetime, useless to family.

But Marian was not so wasted after all. There was a way to come back from this, but to go into hiding (either private or parochial) was certainly not the answer. Brave faces, chins up, he could beat this. Edward of Knighton could best them all.

**Gwyn:** [casually conversational, as she is accustomed to be with Edward] I shall tell her, my lord, [drops a curtsey] though I fear we may find she has too much of her brother Clem's blood, and will kick against it.

_Among the many rumors Edward's men have sniffed out is one that says Edward, himself, makes imminent plans to wed his chatelaine, this Gwyn of low birth._

Indeed, in the past at times they have been quite close, and in her role as chatelaine to his Hall, their interests often similar. And though his junior by twenty years, her soft good looks and pleasant demeanor have often been a comfort to him, a man often too driven to look much to comfort of any kind.

The world such as it was, was not kind to a man without sons, and so the peasantry assigned romantic notions even to their Sheriff, knowing this, and wishing him a second wife to yet gain him a living heir.

Her speaking so candidly (though often tolerated at Knighton before his knowledge of this concerning gossip) proves a mistake.

**Edward:** As for you, Gwyn, [he is shaking now] you forget yourself! You are _not_ her lady mother! You are _not_ a lady! Nor shall you ever be!

_Gwyn stares in response, gob-smacked, while Edward composes himself. She is not used to such treatment by this man, her liege, whom she both serves and reveres._

**Edward:** [issuing his orders] You shall stay at Knighton and close up the Hall. It shall not be needed for some time. Ruth Lacey will tend to Marian's needs here, such as they will be. That is all. You may consider yourself dismissed. [after a moment adds, as she is retreating, her face like someone slapped her] And be aware, if Marian does not present herself promptly at the castle, if those guards have to be sent to fetch her? You may consider yourself _permanently_ dismissed.

_[this next bit of narrative occurs in montage form]: Marian does return to the castle, as requested, without Gwyn. From there, Edward makes Marian (still grieving) go on continuous show, even to parties far away to avoid any appearance of scandal or impropriety. This is why he opposed her joining with a nunnery (that, and he would not wish the Order to inherit his lands). He believes the only remedy for the situation is to convince one and all she is not with child, not despoiled, and that they as a family have nothing of which to be ashamed._

However, the incident has irreparably demeaned her in the eyes of the nobility, who are not immune to listening to servants' gossip. Robin's hush-hush departure has hurt Marian's standing easily as much as her father's erratic behavior in response to it. Even though no one can say why, all tend toward believing something is not right in the situation. Edward's rabid parading of Marian does not help.

Marian herself wrestles with exhaustion, such is her father-appointed chock-a-block social calendar, and depression (two things difficult to juggle: society and depression). On the down-low, Edward has a doctor examine her, and the man suggests a rest in the country, but Edward staunchly refuses to remove her to Knighton and to peace and quiet, afeared it will be believed she has gone there to give birth in pseudo-secret.

It becomes almost impossible to imagine Marian finding anyone willing (and worthy) to ever wed her, such is the persistent stink of scandal and salaciousness about her over this affair and her father's handling of it.

At the final party she attends she has become too ill to even protest her attending it. Upon seeing her dressed to depart, Edward (shockingly) demands her newly-appointed ladies' maid Ruth Lacey apply make-up to Marian's face to conceal her disturbingly pallid complexion, but it is too late. After a harrowing and lengthy trip by coach through torrential rains and on treacherous roads, upon arriving at the baron-attended party (held somewhere near far-off Rufford), Marian collapses publicly.

His plans effectively foiled, his hopes crushed, Edward relents, washing his hands of Marian's situation. He dissolves the marriage contract sooner than he had resolved to, sending news of it (as he would with any other noble's similar doings) in his usual report on the shire to the King [which is delivered to Him, and by proximity, Robin, as the Holy Land-bound Court winters in Portugal]. Marian is sent to Knighton, her future uncertain, her life no longer planned out, but for the most part seeming to be over.

There she is received (and cared for) by Gwyn, into a household run by only the barest of staff. Marian's condition is so weak she proves susceptible to other illnesses. Sarah, the only cook retained, whose own daughter is sick, proves (though no one understands the concept or discovers it) to be acting a 'Typhoid Mary'; carrying disease to the Hall without herself being symptomatic. Eating the food Sarah prepares, her own immune system compromised by her emotional state and her physical exhaustion, Marian falls badly ill.

As a consequence of her feverish illness her exceptionally long hair is shorn all but completely (think convict-close). [And so when Robin returns from Crusade in "Will You Tolerate This?", what we see is it as it is growing back. Marian's unforgotten horror at this initial shearing only makes the new Sheriff's punishment of her in "Parent Hood" all the more cunning. As surely he has been told of her prior shaven disgrace.]

And so Marian is left disfellowshipped by noble society (and her own father), wrestling with clinical depression and disfigured by the alteration of her physical appearance. She has lost three members of her family to death, including the older brother she worshipped. She has lost (or never had) her father to his own ambition. She has been exquisitely groomed to make a highly valued choice for a lord's wife. She has been engaged, in love, abandoned, and seen that engagement broken along with her whole heart. All before her eighteenth birthday. She is quite sure nothing will ever happen to her again, and she will die, old and ravaged by illness before her time, of use to nothing and no one.

For naught, she is quite certain, will ever interest her again.

[And so, in "Parent Hood", Robin's questions about suitors in his absence (of which there were not many, if any), and the Sheriff's snide remarks about age and marriage are truly cutting.]

* * *

**Present Day - Sherwood Forest - The now-fallen log bridge at the narrow source of the River Idle -** [There is a very succinct rewind here, just to bring us back to where we are, post-commercial cut-away (I would tend to refer to these as 'dummy re-winds'): Gisborne attempts the death blow on Little John, his sword is subverted by someone in a blindingly white cloak. It is the Nightwatchman! Gisborne's eyes show us that he is at peace with the notion of Marian showing herself here, in the guise of the 'watchman, (he believes) an avenging angel he must fight and triumph over in order to earn absolution for his many trespasses (as though this figure is God's appointed champion in a heavenly version of trial-by-combat where his soul is the prize). Little John lays gravely-wounded in the snow, staining it his own blood.]

The audience, of course, known Marian is alive in France, having a baby. So who is this Nightwatchman? Is it the same figure in #40, "Everything Comes Out In the Wash", seen by the villeins of Knighton in early evening, the sighting of whom is thought to be good luck?

All that is certain is that Gisborne fully believes this present figure to be the Angel Marian, sent to sort him in Sherwood.

**SCENE:** [Gisborne's POV] Her visage was concealed from him, of course. It always had been; silk scarf cloaking the entire lower half of her face, a simple harlequin's mask covering the rest. Even her hands were covered in gloves, her sword plain and unornamented in any way, a weapon of pure utility. Only the eyes were there to betray her identity. Was she perhaps cloaked to conceal a heavenly glory too much for earthly eyes to behold?

_It was an honor_, the knight thought. An honor to finally engage her in combat-engage her in any way-knowing in truth, finally; knowing who it was behind the mask. An opponent more worthy than he had ever let himself believe when she yet lived, and the Nightwatchman rode.

Gisborne and the 'watchman are now in the full throes of battle, the Nightwatchman making use of his cloak to the fullest extent possible as everything from a pseudo-shield to a tactical diversion from his expert swordsmanship.

[Here we will begin to flash between the goings-on in Sir Guy's mind regarding Marian, and the actual footage of the pitched battle. I am not so great at lunge/parry play-by-play, so for the most part it will be "they continue to fight in the snow"-Sorry.]

Sir Guy experiences a duality to his reality beginning here: he sees and fights in the ongoing duel, yet he finds himself fully present (far more vividly than just a mere memory) at an occasion some ten years ago.

* * *

**FLASHBACK: Nottingham Castle - circa 1188 - **The series' Sheriff of Nottingham is receiving Guy at the castle for the first time. Both are new to their posts. The Sheriff is in, perhaps, the best mood we've ever seen him.

**Sheriff V. of Nottingham** [that is, not Edward-no, I cannot say or type the "V" word]**:** Ah, you should have seen it, Gisborne! 'Twas a pity it was not in our best interests to have you present! [aside to no one] And it was, in fact, very much like a little present. A little "welcome to the neighborhood" present. [looking back at Gisborne now] Far better than a casserole, what?

_Gisborne is not entirely used to or comfortable with the Sheriff's odd ways. He is at-present more or less a hired mercenary, not yet progressed into the position of the Sheriff's chief lieutenant, and unacquainted with Nottingham, et al. [You will recall he did not become Master-At-Arms until "Who Shot the Sheriff?"] So he is on his way up the ladder, but not yet to the top._

**Gisborne:** My lord? [There is a lot of flummoxed 'my lord?' in his speech as he tries to understand his new employer.]

**_FLASH to Sherwood:_** They continue to fight in the snow.

**FLASHBACK**

**Sheriff V. of Nottingham:** Why, the old Sheriff, Old Henry's Edward that was. Has no one told you of the welcome mat he put out for us? [snickers far longer than is socially acceptable] It was himself, man! His whole self. He dropped, just there [illustrates spot on the stone floor, just below his impressive throne, er, chair in the Great Hall]. [rather quickly composes himself to ask, dryly] What do you suppose one does for an encore? Hmm?

**Gisborne:** [hoping he has got it right] Upon your arrival the previous Sheriff collapsed?

**Sheriff V. of Nottingham:** [too pleased to even be dismissive in his all-but-drawing-a-picture-of-it explanation] Prince John had suggested the best way to handle the unseating of his father's previous appointment to the position was stealth. I came, traveling with the King's messenger and the messenger's usual complement of guards. Oh, except they were not his, nor the King's. They were [strings it out with wolfish grin] mine. [faking wistfulness] And when the messenger hand-delivered the news to old Eddie that he had indeed already experienced his twilight years as Sheriff, made his last decree, and his replacement was there before him? [now cuttingly] He dropped like a stone. [considers] More like fourteen stone, actually. Had to be taken away, [flutters a hand] off to his estate. _Kni_-something.

_"Knighton," corrects a faceless lackey confined to the corner of the Hall for just such a purpose._

**_FLASH to Sherwood:_** They continue to fight in the snow.

**FLASHBACK**

**Sheriff V. of Nottingham:** Haven't seen him since. Get regular updates, certainly. Have several men stationed with an eye on his Manor.

**Faceless Lackey:** [softly, as though giving lines in a play] Hall, sire.

**Sheriff V. of Nottingham:** [cheerfully accepts the correction] Hall. [rolls it over on his tongue, learning it] Knigh-ton-Hall. Well, he doesn't do much there. Reports say that he closed a whole eyelid last week. [silently fake applauds] On his own power. Power [snorts, but by sentence end he is all business]. Yes, well, he's got no more of that now, has he?

**Gisborne:** [agreeing] My lord.

_Indeed, Edward had suffered a stroke upon learning the news that he had lost the appointment of Sheriff. This ill-turn for his health had been a long time coming. The recent left arm pain presaged his heart trouble, but none were there to interpret it. The stress he put upon himself in the wake of Robin and Marian's broken betrothal surely led up to the ill-timed breakdown. And it is his reaction to that event that went a long way to losing him the confidence and support of his fellow nobles, and consequently his position as Lord High Sheriff._

It is this health concern, and his arduous recuperation from it that re-shapes his entire world. For the first time in his adult life he finds himself utterly dependent upon others. He finds that he no longer orders the world around him, neither at large, nor even within his own Hall. He finds himself frightened by the change of power in Nottingham, and fearful when faced with the future, qualms which birth a new caution within him. But most of all he finds his body, when he perhaps needs it most, has betrayed him. His convalescence proves long. For the better part of a year he cannot speak to be understood, and only with great effort shuffles to walk.

But the calm days at Knighton (even with the new Sheriff's men watching at all times), and the drastic change of pace prove good for his nerves, and he suffers no follow-up strokes.

He begins an acquaintance with Marian in these days, and they both benefit from their first true time with one another, even if Edward does come away from it largely believing that Marian enjoys her embroidery. (Too much truth not being good for those afflicted with high blood pressure, and previous history of stroke.)

The visitor that stuns him the most, appearing even within the initial harrowing days of his illness is Robert, Earl of Huntingdon. The Earl, though Edward is originally suspicious that he has only come because he, Edward, cannot speak to oppose him, nonetheless proves himself a stalwart friend and boon companion throughout Edward's recovery.

And it is a combination of Marian's creation of the Nightwatchman and her father's true need of her (no longer as a mere chess piece) that finally draws Marian back from the abyss she had found herself falling into.

She finds she is needed by the peasants, needed in the nursing of, and recovery of the mind of her father. She is needed to run the Knighton estate (including administering the village of Clun), in the absence of its lord's voice and acumen.

Marian of Knighton has found a path, its discovery a salvation to her, a different kind of embroidery: to look beyond herself to see others' lives and their sea of troubles, and set herself about 'mending' them.

And so the young woman willingly takes on her dual identity: obedient, spinster helpmeet-of-a-daughter, and midnight, masked champion of the downtrodden.

Happily, she is no longer but a precious knick-knack on a high shelf meant for display, but not for touching, nor is she a broken-into-pieces valuable now rendered worthless. She is reborn as a common object, but one of usefulness, of adventure and loyalty, finally able to act on the conviction of her beliefs.

Marian of Knighton is again alive.

* * *

**Present Day - Sherwood Forest - nearby the fallen log bridge at the source of the River Idle -** Shot of Little John, languishing in torment in the snow. We can hear (though not yet see) that the clash between Gisborne and the Nightwatchman continues, shots of footprints denting the Forest's snow (Gisborne's steps stained with Little John's fresh blood), which the camera follows until it finds the two swordsmen battling it out in what, in Spring, would prove a particularly dense thicket.

The 'watchman expertly slashes with his sword so that the leather strappings on Gisborne's breastplate are severed and it falls, useless to the ground. Several more slashes that Gisborne cannot block, and his gauntlets follow suit. He is still armored from the waist down, but wears no helm.

Quickly proving the better, more imaginative (and less already-expended) swordsman, the 'watchman is slowly de-armoring Gisborne. It gives the knight a peculiar feeling of a lightening of his load, but it dangerously exposes him to vulnerabilities as well.

Though in his tunnel-vision Gisborne cannot see it, though the Nightwatchman is acquitting himself quite ably, there are occasional glitches in his method of attack, the odd stagger here and there as though he must struggle merely to maintain his balance. In response, viewers may find themselves asking: is the Nightwatchman injured? Has he taken a hit we have not been shown?

It is not long before Sir Guy becomes pinned in near several tree branches, and when he pulls his arm back to strike, his prize possession, the bracelet he stole from Robin of Marian's hair (which he has now re-plaited with his own, as in #35 "The Nature of Love and a Good Brisket") betrays him and snags itself (or does the Sherwood tree instead grab _it_?) trapping his sword arm, and effectively his entire self. Gisborne tears and tugs, pulls and pries, in a desperate effort to free himself.

The Nightwatchman, never having yet spoken, steps forward, and now it is Gisborne's turn to, like Little John before him, understand what is to come. To know himself powerless to stop it. He has failed. We are to the fight's deathblow. The 'watchman's hood sloughs back, the day's dying sun sends its shaft across the mask highlighting its eyeholes. Like Gisborne's gaze, the scene in Sherwood freezes on those eyes, and from his hamstrung position, Gisborne falls, falls, falls, sliding into blueness.

* * *

**FLASHBACK: Nottingham Castle - circa 1188 - secret room for spying on the Great Hall**

**Sheriff V. of Nottingham: **[snarking to Gisborne about the assembled Council of Nobles] Sir Reginald, there, thinks he's like a brother to me. He has proven useful, but what a pity for him when he finds out _how very much like_. [intimating that he has done away with his own brother]. His fault, really. Shouldn't have had the misfortune to tell me _quite_ how well his mines are doing. _Tsk tsk_. What's your fancy, Sir Guy? Hmm? By whom shall you profit? Eh? Commerce? Coin? Land? Title? [looks to Guy's face] [flatly] Girl.

**Faceless Lackey:** [doing his job again, putting names with faces, though she has not raised her head so that it can be seen, she is the object of Sir Guy's unwavering stare] [hushed] Lady Marian of Knighton, previous Sheriff's daughter.

**Sheriff V. of Nottingham:** Ah. [distastefully, he was hoping to discover something, anything more interesting about Guy] You long for companionship. Get yourself a dog, man. Better yet, I shall get you a manor house full of them. Only, [sing-song] whose manor? Eeney-meeny...[prattles on]

_Gisborne pays him no mind. Even though he is concealed from the occupants of the Great Hall beyond, he has a one-sided "West Side Story Maria meets Tony at the dance"-type moment, and he cannot look away from Marian who so obviously does not wish to be in attendance (she is there only to represent Edward and herself, as he is too ill to travel and has not yet regained his speech, and no one being present from Knighton would certainly be seen as a dangerous lack of support for the new Sheriff and his regime)._

**Sheriff V. of Nottingham:** [still going]...some scandal there, yes?

**Faceless Lackey:** Broken engagement, possibly she was deflowered. Not out much socially.

**Sheriff V. of Nottingham:** There you go, Gisborne, spoiled fruit. Past its prime. [lewdly relishing the similarity of plucked and ...]But once plucked, open to re-plucking, yes? No doubt grateful for any attentions thrown her way nowadays. [perhaps seeing a line to controlling Gisborne through such a woman (largely because he does not yet know what type of woman Marian actually is)] Like an introduction, would you?

_The Sheriff and Gisborne exit the secret room and proceed, faceless lackey in tow, to the Great Hall, where they make a beeline for Marian, who is in conversation with Robert, the Earl, her back to them._

**Sheriff V. of Nottingham:** [all smoothie] Ah, the beautiful Lady Marian! May I present Sir Guy, [as though the designation is impressive] of Gisborne?

_Marian turns and looks directly at Guy. Gisborne, who has been involuntarily holding his breath, nearly falls to the floor, so deeply do her blue eyes pierce him. In that moment, yet unknown, she is anything he wishes to make her into, and yet, everything he wishes for._

[This next bit sort of happens, visually, in tandem with the paragraph below, one being able to view images faster than read paragraphs.]

**Marian:** [utterly noncommittal, distracted, even] How do you do, Sir Guy?

* * *

**Present Day - Sherwood Forest - thicket near the now-broken log bridge that had spanned the source of the River Idle - **When we are brought back into this present moment, the shot is on the entangled bracelet, which does indeed _seem_ to be sprouting or transforming into otherworldly black, thorny tendrils that are holding it (and Gisborne's wrist and sword arm) to a high tree branch. But even through this, he cannot tear his gaze away from the familiar eyes of the Nightwatchman. Not even to look at the weapon about to claim his life.

**[Flashing back] **

**Marian:** [utterly noncommittal, distracted, even] How do you do, Sir Guy?

**Gisborne:** [with conviction, even at that initial meeting] My lady.

But he speaks it in both timelines.

In the present moment, the 'watchman's blade slices true, sinking deeply, deeply into the knight's heart, as those same eyes yet pierce Sir Guy of Gisborne's very soul.

"My lady," Gisborne gasps, as he slumps, arm still trapped, his weight hanging from the tree branch, his own sword fallen from his hand moments, an hour, a lifetime, ago. Dying with those words upon his lips. He brings his left hand up to remove the 'watchman's mask, to reveal her face, his action tender and worshipful (he holds no grudge for his defeat at the hand of this Angel Marian). Gisborne thinks of himself dying for love, having killed for love, never having known himself to have the capacity to do either.

The Nightwatchman does not protest Gisborne's reaching out. It is far too late to matter, but as the mask drops, a permanent darkness has already fallen over the face of Guy of Gisborne, taking the light forever from his own eyes, and he never sees the true face there, in Sherwood Forest, behind that Nightwatchman's mask. For it is not the woman he, in his way, loved. It is, instead, the strikingly similar eyes of her believed-paralyzed brother, Sir Clem that look out at him.

And so it is revealed; this Nightwatchman, seen by the peasants 'round Knighton, and encountered this day in Sherwood is not (of course) Marian at all, not angel nor devil, but is her brother Clem, miraculously (and secretly) having healed and strengthened himself to the point that he was able to fight a pitched battle. It is Clem who has taken on the mantle of the Nightwatchman. And masked, it is this new lord of Knighton who wears a white cloak in memory of his sister. It is Clem, with eyes so like his sister's that Gisborne has mistaken. It is Clem who has killed his sister's murderer.

And it is tears from those eyes, so like Marian's, that fall on the face of this now-dead knight, Guy of Gisborne. Tears not of pity for Clem's opponent with the broken soul, whom he effectively vanquished this day, nor for the feeling of exultation that his own once-broken body allowed him to again accomplish such a physically strenuous feat, but rather, tears for a lost sister whose death he could avenge, but for whose life he would have rather killed.

Clem of Knighton, exhausted, unsteady on his feet, must lean for a moment, supported by his sword thrust into the ground. But he does not tarry to deal with his enemy's body, nor pause to contemplate the strange, wraithlike thorns creeping possessively down the arm of his opponent [does he even see it?]. No, with a great heave of breath he retraces his and Gisborne's footprints back to the banks of the River Idle, and the giant of a man still lying there, whose life he had yet to finish saving.

_Sorry, no commerical break (yet) this time, but your rommate made you pause the TiVo so she could get up and go to the bathroom._

* * *

**...TBC...**


	48. A Matter of Life

_Regrets. Yes, I know I am behind on review responses and have not updated Author's Notes since chapter #45. But I am assuming that new story content is of more interest than those two other things at the moment (though I shall get to them, I promise)._

* * *

**Sherwood Forest - Snowy bank of the River Idle -** Clem has returned to the side of Little John, and though now showing his handicap (his balance tenuous, his level of strength fluctuating, his dexterity inexact), he struggles to fashion a device that will allow the injured outlaw to be pulled by Bess, Knighton's best draft horse (and the mount Clem rode into the forest) to a place where he can receive medical attention. There is no possibility that Clem alone (even in prime condition) would be able to lift the large man onto Bess' back. Little John is no help, barely conscious in the cold, the pallor of his face illustrating well his loss of blood, even if the snow around him were not steeped in it.

A sound not of the natural forest catches Clem's ear and he calls out.

**Clem:** Who goes there?

_Luke Scarlet has come in search of Little John, now gone too long from the outlaws' camp. Recognizing both the horse and Sir Clem (despite his Nightwatchman garb), and having followed Little John's tracks this far, Luke shows himself._

**Clem:** [glad to see another pair of hands, but predictably having trouble talking to non-nobility] You, there! [there is no one else about] Boy! You are one of Robin Hood's men, yes? [They have met multiple times]

_Luke quickly assesses the state of things and glosses over any unnecessary conversation. [i.e. How did this happen? What are you, a known cripple, doing in the forest, walking? Why do you not know me when we have met on several occasions?]_

**Luke:** How badly is he... [then addressing John directly] ...are you hurt? John?

**Clem:** He is beyond speech, lad. He will not regain it, I think, neither his speech nor his life if we cannot get his blood to stop flowing.

_Luke begins to apply pressure to the site of the wound._

**Clem:** [has an idea][to business] We must remove his coat. [begins swiftly to do so]

**Luke:** [not standing on ceremony where a lord is concerned when Little John's life is in the balance] What do you think you're doing? Have you gone mad? We must get him back to camp. To Robin, and a surgeon.

**Clem:** [ignoring Luke's less-than-deferential tone][completing the removal of John's coat, he begins packing snow around Little John's body, between the big man's coat and the ground.] We must put him in a sort of 'snow sleep'. And before we bring him out of it, we must first have found a way to stop the blood. [exasperated at not being unquestionably obeyed] Well, help me, man, if you want him to have a chance to live!

**Luke:** [skeptically, showing the Scarlet hesitancy until convinced. Little John seems to him far too cold already. Making him colder seems illogical] John, can you hear me? It's Luke. It's Lukey. [Does not stint in his pressure on the wound]

**Clem:** [unused to having to explain himself or his wishes to his social inequals] I saw it done once in the Pyrenees.

_Blank look from Luke in response._

**Clem:** In the Basque Provinces.

_Blank look continues._

**Clem:** In Spain. [destroyed by Luke's utter ignorance of geography] [desperate, shouting] In the mountains!

_Luke slowly moves to comply. Grateful, Clem offers a promise he has no power to keep._

**Clem:** I swear to you, Sherwood snow will save this man.

_Both men strive to pack as much snow about the already chilled Little John as possible, and between them do manage to fashion a way to drag him back to camp, where they encounter Much, instantly frantic at the sight of them and their disturbing cargo._

Clem must once again explain himself, but conversely, Much responds quite well (after a young lifetime of servitude) to his lordly communication style. Much is always willing to follow orders when they are given by a clear leader.

**Clem:** We cannot attempt to wake him from the snow sleep without first stopping the blood.

**Much:** There is a midwife lives on the outskirts of Wadlowe. She will be nearest, and in this weather like as not to be home. She will have some notion of staunching blood, [turns away from Clem] think you not, Luke?

**Luke:** [nervously (figuratively, as his hands are busy on John's wound) wringing his hands. Aislinn is the better of the two at handling situations calling for quick decisions] I would that Robin were here.

**Clem:** Much, you must run and fetch the wise woman here to us. Bess is far too wearied and sluggish on these snowy grounds. I shall seek Robin while Luke stays here with John. But, not too near the fire.

_Even in this moment of stress and need for all haste, Luke and Much share a look. It is the first time Clem has ever addressed them as nearly equals (even though he is issuing direction), or used all three of the outlaws' names._

Much departs at a wild run. Luke accepts an extra fur for himself as he sits beside John out in the elements.

Clem, with only his current adrenaline levels keeping him upright, pulls himself on to Bess, despite her slowness. Without her help (poky and plodding though she may be) he could move not hardly one muscle more.

He goes not too far before he calls out.

"Robin!" he shouts off into the snowy Wood. "Robin!" as he seeks a man known for his adeptness at hiding amongst Sherwood. But a man who today must needs be found. And quickly.

Twenty minutes later and Clem is still looking, still bellowing, his voice turning ragged in the effort. "Man ought to have a damn signal for such moments, a familiar hunting horn to be sounded, something!" And he shouts for Robin again.

"Robin!" but now Clem's ragged voice becomes a sort of harsh duet, as though the same notes are sounded, but in two different pitches.

We see a shot of the deep Forest, and here, finally, is Robin. He reacts to the call, his ears perk up and he sets off in a mad dash to find its origin, leaping and sprinting with the grace and agility of a woodland stag. For the tones, though ragged and queerishly doubled, leave no doubt that something is wrong in the Forest, something which needs his immediate attention.

* * *

**Calais, France - Lady Matilda's chambers -** "Robin!" again comes the sound, more like an echo, but now the camera shot is back in France, and we see the reason for the ragged, queerish duet the sound had. It is the word also being shouted from Marian's lips, her own voice strained as she pushes her child out in to the world, into Salima's waiting arms. But when she shouts it again, Clem's tones are muted, and her own frayed voice catches at the end of 'Robin!' in a small cry.

She is spent, but it matters not. The deed is done, the child arrived, as his boisterous cries soon herald.

Salima works a goodly amount of time (with many detours to, along with Marian, admire the fine new babe) settling mother and child into a clean and tidied bed, her and Marian's faces both near to breaking with the unwavering smiles they wear. Marian, weary beyond measure, but energized by her son's appearance. Salima, feeling as if she were floating in someone else's dream.

She is nearly unable to process that things have gone well, and the child is strong and more than likely to live. And that she should have been allowed to be any small part of such an event amazes her. She is so very unaccustomed to joy (much less her own, personal joy) that she is not certain how to handle herself. She is giddy with delight (without, in fact, knowing how to be giddy), and she feels something that usually would deeply dismay her: hope. Things in her own life have so seldom turned to the good, and so rarely (if ever) inspired a feeling of hope that she is like a young child eating a sweet for the first time (and perhaps more than a bit like many a new father); all wonderment and awe.

"Salima, I wonder," Marian asks drowsily, "might I sleep with him here, just so, beside me? Do you suppose that will be alright?"

Salima smiled, an exceedingly rare treat that Marian was too groggy to appreciate. "Yes, lady, it will be, I think, perfection. I shall," she added (though Marian was no longer conscious enough to hear), tiptoeing to the chambers' door, "call in someone who I suspect has stationed himself just beyond..." She opened the door only to have young Tristan nearly fall over on top of her.

He quickly regained his wits, seeing it was Salima. "Her Highness, Queen Eleanor requests you bring her news in person, and sends these clothings, a one-time gift to the Crown she had received from the Indian East, for you to wear, in, she said, celebration of the auspicious occasion." He looked quite satisfied with himself for getting out such a mouthful, and in a single breath.

Salima took the package from the young page, not bothering to explain that she was not, in point of fact, from the Indian East, nor accustomed to wearing their national costume (whatever it proved to be). "Tristan," she admonished him, "I must go and do this, as I may no longer put off the Queen, but I must ask you to sit with my lady, neither disturbing her nor the babe. But if for any reason something seems amiss, you must fetch me immediately. You will do this?" And then she uncharacteristically made a small joke, "even if you are in the middle of singing one of your songs about Robin Hood, Sheriff's-bane?"

Tristan responded with great sincerity. "You know I shall, Lady Salima. Half the Queen's personal guard are to arrive momentarily at my lady's chambers to secure the door against unwanted visitors. All will be well here. On my word as a-" he paused, deciding whether to take the risk, "on my word as a _future_ knight."

Salima has stalled in her departure to the Queen as long as she thinks possible. She has no desire to leave Marian and the baby's side, but queens such as Eleanor know little (and care less) of such tender feelings when they countermand obedience to the Crown.

She quickly donned, to the best of her ability, the foreign garments, which proved to be a silken sari of the brightest red, ornately trimmed in golden needlework of the highest quality. (Fortunately she had some level of familiarity with how it was to be draped.) Several bangles and glittering jewels also fell from the package, and so she put on those, finishing with a quick brush of her loose-hanging hair and another washing of her hands (on such a day, could one wash too many times? She thought not).

Before she stepped out of the chamber she walked to the edge of the bed to once again glimpse perfect happiness: the child, still awake, but peaceful, in the arms of his sleeping mother.

**Tristan:** [in revelation, as though seeing Salima for the first time, and having trouble continuing to apply the term 'repellent' to her] You look like the sun.

**Salima:** [in afterthought and without censoring herself, she is so taken by beholding mother and child][does not look up] Do I? Then let us hope the Queen does not mind being outshone by her own gifts.

**Tristan:** [ever thinking of his friends][sincere in his request] But you will go see Llanio first, in the chapel, won't you? He has waited ever-so long.

**Salima: **[she had all but forgotten the minstrel's request] Llanio? And what finds him in the chapel? [the strangeness of the request and the location finally dawning on her] [does not wait for an explanation] Does one pass this chapel on the way to the Queen's chambers?

**Tristan:** One may, if one is clever.

**Salima:** [slyly] Then it seems I must beg you, Tristan, most humbly, for such directions, ere your friend pass away due to such prolonged lack of sustenance.

* * *

**SCENE:** The Lady Salima walked down the passageway as directed by the page Tristan, ostensibly on her way to report to the Queen. If it were possible, she walked not on the cold stone at her feet, but high above, among the clouds. Though it had been so long since she looked outside she hardly knew if it were day or night, much less if the sky were cloudy or clear.

The swish of the silken fabric she wore skirted and then swept over one shoulder suited her mood; there was a gaiety in its sound and feel, a something that made her want to walk in a new way, that made her open to the idea of putting off a Queen in favor of a mere castle jongleur. A something that today made her not even add "and not a very good one, at that" to the end of such a sentence.

_The troubadour Llanio_. She was not sure she had ever much contemplated him before. Certainly she had assessed, even early on, the likelihood of whether he was a threat to Marian and the baby. Certainly she had studied on (and observed) whether he was indeed anything at all of a minstrel (which it seemed to her, decidedly, he was not). Courts, as she well knew, were full of poseurs. Over-run with fakes, phonies and frauds. And she was not even including spies in those categories.

But, Llanio. There was a veracity to his every falsehood. A consistency and a conviction. Was it ridiculous for her to think him the most honest liar she had ever met? Yes, it was ridiculous.

Every bit as ridiculous as the preposterously long eyelashes on his face, married somehow to his wildly distinguished nose. An unexpected coupling, to be certain, putting her always in mind of his parentage. The lashes, one hoped, a gift from his mother. The nose, surely a paternal bequest.

Salima knew well enough she often set him in a bad mood, had foiled plans of his more than once, though she was never fully able to puzzle out what his plans were. But she was surprised to find out, in that moment before the last turn of Tristan's instructions needed to reach the chapel, that she thought of him as her friend. Her very good friend.

She believed him a spy, though she did not know of whose. She believed he would rejoice in knowing what secrets she and the Lady Matilda held. Yet she believed also that she could trust him. (Though at the King's diktat she had not, and would not.)

Perhaps it was the way Llanio seldom looked at her. That is, he looked at her, but not like the others, the other men. He looked at her as the King did. As Sir Robin had, during their acquaintance at the abbey, and as so few others ever had. Not as something they plotted to or wished to possess. Not as a thing, or a path to their pleasure. He looked at her and he saw _her_, even though doing so often seemed to make him sour.

But, (a small, insolent voice inside her head told her) the King was the _King_ and Sir Robin (even to her own unsentimental eyes) deeply besotted with Lady Marian. Perhaps it was this one thing about Llanio that she had never had reason to consider that also altered his seeing of her: perhaps he was similarly entranced by another woman. Perhaps this somehow enabled him to bypass the things about her that so often got in the way of people seeing her for who she was.

Perhaps it was not such a remarkable trait, after all. But, (another small and equally insolent voice inside her head told her) she could count on one hand those she had met, Saracen or European, who possessed it.

She looked down to the slanting scar on her palm, the one Carter had sought to duplicate on his own palm as he vowed to her that last day of his days. _He_ had told her that he had seen into her. _He_ had said she would not let him know her, that she hid herself from him.

**FLASHBACK to #13, "Carter's Woman" -**_ Outside Acre. The tent Salima and Carter share, attached to the King's. Just after rising on the day Robin & Co. will end up tied to stakes out in the desert, and Carter will, of necessity, rescue them. And then die at the hand of a Sheriff acting very far outside his jurisdiction._

He has just proposed marriage to an aghast-at-the-thought Salima.

"I have not won all of you," Carter said, a slight smile curving one corner of his mouth. "You will not let me. Perhaps, because you do not yet know the value of yourself. But I _will_ know you. I will persevere. And I will win you."

He smiled in the confident, yet inclusive way he had.

"And I will love you until then," he promised. "And I will love you ever after." He took out a cabochon ruby-inlaid dagger of which he was fond. It had once been tossed his way from a chest of such things by Much (of all people-in memory of Thomas, the manservant had said) just before he left England.

"And I say this," Carter continued, taking Salima's hand in his, "because I think you must needs hear it, even if you will not believe it. I make _this_ my vow to you," he etched the line of one of her palm scars with a roughly calloused finger, and took the dagger and carved a mirror of her scar into his own right palm, blood let flow to mark the making of his vow.

**End FLASHBACK**

But today, Salima found, was not a day for such thoughts that oft took dark turns. She scrubbed her scarred palm against the sari's red silk, as if to rub on it some of the fabric's cheerful-making powers.

She found she felt a bit cracked. Yes, that was apt. A bit like the day, and the babe, _aye, the precious babe_, had over-filled her, and like a split crock, things inside her wanted seeping out. It seemed the frothy, light things wanted out first. They had been held down the longest, after all. Joy, for one, stoppered inside her time before memory. Hope, and high spirits too long caged by fear. Revelry, yes. She wanted revelry. She settled on that. A minstrel would surely be able to supply that four-fold.

She pushed open one of the double doors to enter the chapel.

He was there in the front at the altar on a prie-dieu. His strong shoulders and fancy minstrel's vest familiar to her. In Palestine, where she had lived from a child, she was more than accustomed to seeing grown men bowed or fully prostrate in reverent prayer multiple times a day, and her time among Richard's Holy Land-Court and the Templars had shown her Englishmen also held with not entirely dissimilar spiritual practices. But the idea of _Llanio_, Llanio the terrible minstrel, Llanio the spy, Llanio so rarely seen outside the lower kitchens except to give a show more style than substance and tantalize the castle's randy ladyfolk-to find him thus defied all expectation. Salima tried for a moment to recall for just how long Tristan had said the troubadour had been here.

He must have heard her enter, for he half-turned on the kneeling bench, his weight and limbs a-tangle, trapping his extremities, and sending the bench (and him with it) thudding floorward.

In response, the Lady Salima, known by all for being dour, opened her rarely smiling mouth, and laughed with the laughter of a healing, of an alteration, and of an unconscious transformation unknowingly begun inside of her, in which happiness was to prove the best of all tonics.

"_Your_ heart," she told him true, as she beheld him lying at the level of her feet, "seems too merry to be much suited to prayer."

* * *

**Sherwood Forest -** [This scene is shot without audio, and is overdubbed in music. So we watch, and easily understand all that is going on, though we do not hear the conversations that occur.]

Robin arrives at the Outlaws' Camp and finds Little John and Luke just in time for Much to arrive with the midwife, who proves a bit taken aback by her new patient's odd treatment of being packed in snow and brought to the brink of eternity. But once she gets past this new remedy, she begins her work in earnest, and all present set themselves to the task of bringing Little John back from that brink. Prayers, as numerous as the many anxious breaths they take, go up from all.

Though it were his shouts that returned Robin to camp, Clem himself has not reappeared.

In the desperate fight for Little John's life, it is unlikely that a search party will be sent out to locate him anytime soon.

* * *

**Calais, France - Lady Matilda's chambers -** Marian sleeps, exhausted. And as she sleeps she dreams, more vividly than she ever has in her life.

In the dream she wakes within her bed in her bedroom at Knighton. Knighton Hall that was. Before the fire.

The dream is so lucid and realistic she does not even question being there. Yet, she knows it to be a dream, (as she retains all knowledge of her waking life; for example, she knows she has just birthed a child). But in that way dreams can have, it momentarily becomes more real to her, more the truth, than the waking world.

But likewise, in the way that dreams can have, anyone may make an appearance, dreams having little truck with actuality, geography, or the finality of death.

_Gwyn, Knighton's chatelaine, comes into the room, and Marian smiles._

**Marian:** [slightly nervous] And...where is my babe?

**Gwyn:** [helpfully, but a bit confused at the question] Why, he's with the Sheriff, my lady. As you asked?

_Marian attempts to rise, immediately panicked, but is unable to summon the full strength necessary. Quickly, Gwyn is at her side, firmly directing her back into bed._

**Gwyn:** Stuff and bother if you won't be planning to ride out as the 'Watchman this very night.

**Marian:** [gasping with horror] But the Sheriff-has my child?

**Gwyn:** [unworried] Yes, and why should you worry yourself o'er your father? Certainly Sir Edward, _the Sheriff_, has not held a wee one since his own were small, but it seems unlikely he will drop the strong lad. And large, too, think you not? [chatting on] Why, the Earl himself can't recall a more lusty-looking babe in all of Locksley. Certainly, he promises, not Master Robin, who was so slight at birth his own mother had to be convinced he was, in truth, not a lass. [aside] Anyways, that is just one of the stories being told over the tubs of October Ale down in the Hall. [sits on the side of the bed and sighs] It has been too long ere I have seen the Hall so filled, and with merriment, at that. [pushes her growing-old bones up off the mattress] Ah, thanks be, and good luck you've had in the birthing. Your mother, may her soul rest, may have had twice your beauty (so it has been said, lady, by more than one), but she had no health for bearing children.

_Dream Marian is so charmed by the sights and smells around her, by seeing Gwyn, listening to her comfortingly familiar (and much-missed) conversation, and bewitched by the idea that her father is somehow, supernaturally present (along with the Earl) that she cannot quite keep herself from hoping for what pleasure might next be revealed. She sits herself up in the bed, back against the headboard._

It is not long before her hope is rewarded.

The door creaks open, and Robin enters. (This is, after all, some dream reality where everything that has occurred has occurred, but dead fathers yet live, and outlawed men roam free, there is no evil Sheriff and yet the Nightwatchman still rides, and Robin is installed as a proper lord again, his clothing soft and elegant, if understated for his position.)

Marian's heart does somersaults. He holds their newborn son within his arms, as the child grasps his father's tunic, and in fact has quite a bit of the rich, green fabric that had been resting over the area of his father's heart down his throat, sucking wildly and receiving no satisfaction. The babe begins to cry in that special, and fleeting way newborns cry. At the sound, Marian's heart melts (as all new mothers' hearts are designed to do).

**Robin:** [looking up, through his bangs, at her] We come, both of us strong men, seeking a warm breast. Have you one to offer?

_Of course this Dream Robin does not act as though they have not seen one another for going on ten months. To him, they have only just parted some ten minutes ago, as he carried his firstborn son, Huntingdon's heir, downstairs to show him off to his grandfathers, and his clutch of once-outlawed uncles._

**Marian:** I think I can find two, actually.

_Robin carries his quietly squalling parcel across the room to the bed, and hands the child to Marian._

**Gwyn:** And what shall your lad be known by, Master Robin?

**Robin:** Ah, good Gwyn. That, I think, shall have to wait until the weather clears to the point that the bickersome grandfathers might fight a proper duel on the subject.

_As Marian takes the child to her, Gwyn exits the room, quietly closing the door behind her, giving the new parents a moment of solitude (if not quiet, the ongoing party downstairs can easily be heard, particularly the song a rather tipsy Much is singing over top of the racket)._

**Robin:** Perhaps I should take us a room at The Trip for a few days. 'Twould easily prove more peaceful than here. And the singing [he slightly rolls his eyes] more in-tune.

_Marian has rolled down her shift to make the nursing of the baby easier. Despite his threat of finding them quieter lodgings, Robin climbs into the bed next to her, his chin just below her bared shoulder, the familiar prickle of his beard resting against the rise of her unoccupied breast as he lays with her, watching the hungry child nurse._

**Marian:** Don't distract him, now!

**Robin:** [faking shock] Distract a man from such business? A meal and a breast, in tandem? Lady, I am no monster! I would not have him distracted from such a pursuit for anything in the world! [considers] Wish you me to silence Much and the others?

**Marian:** [sincerely, contentedly] I would not have them quieted for all the King's treasury. [looks down at her son] I would that he would hear nothing but such sounds of joy.

**Robin:** Well, then I shall tell Roy that he is to give toast next, and bid D'Jaq to sing the one about the re-united sparrows. [makes a movement like he will leave the bed to do so][abandons it and resumes his position]

_With her free arm, Marian places her palm on the side of Robin's face as he lies against her shoulder._

**Marian:** He will fall asleep soon. Do you think he will dream?

**Robin:** Of his next meal?

**Marian:** [teasing] Of his first bow? [good-naturedly] Tell me that is not what I saw peeking out of your pocket just now.

**Robin:** [possibly fibbing] Nay, 'tis a tiny bridle, for your father claimed you were born with reins in your hands. I would not wish my son to be a late bloomer in that regard, disappointing his Knighton blood.

**Marian:** Your son.

**Robin:** _Your_ son.

_A moment passes when it is obvious both are now thinking to themselves, "Our son."_

**Marian:** Is it true, my love, that your mother would not be persuaded that you were a male child, you were so wee when birthed?

**Robin:** [playing at outrage] Woman, do you dare challenge my manhood on this day of all days?

**Marian:** [laughing] I do not challenge it, my lord. Nay. On this day of all days you ought to marvel that I do not fear it, for the fruit of it has worked me hard, and I am well-nigh spent.

**Robin:** You deal with me falsely on that account, Wife. For you are strong. And your courage beyond any I could muster. Though your strength and fortitude were never in question, you have more than proven them today. Were the King himself here I would see you knighted. As for being weary, I am more exhausted than two days' battle on Crusade, but I would not rest my eyes for the world. For I have no wish to remove myself from your breast, from your beating heart, and I have no wish to close my eyes until his tiny face is as etched into the inside of my eyelids as permanently as your own. [sighs] You do birth a beautiful baby, my Lady, my Love.

_And Robin immediately breaks his declaration by pulling away from her and lifting his face to kiss her mouth._

Finished, he moves back from her mouth, but only a little bit, so that their faces are intimately near one another.

**Marian:** Any other day and to any other ears I would bemoan aloud the fact that he looks of his father, taunting 'what a pity', or proclaim that he looks more of the Earl. But here, in this, our Paradise, I tell you he looks of his handsome, strong father, and it is a face I shall never tire of studying, nor weary of waking to.

_She strokes his beard with the back of her knuckles._

Downstairs, Little Little John can be heard reciting a poem to the loud approval of his more-than tipsy father. There is a great thud as Little John passes out, and Dan Scarlet can be heard asking for assistance from his two sons in the moving of him somewhere less in-the-way (as Allan is calling back to the kitchens for more ale).

At the noise, Marian and Robin both giggle, but quickly quieten their reaction, as the baby, just asleep, slightly stirs.

**Robin:** I do not know how I lived a moment of my life not knowing for a certainty that this was what I wanted. You. Him. This place. Us. _A family_.

**Marian:** Hold onto me, Robin. Hold me tightly. I am falling asleep. I am. So tired. I...

And the hormones from the birth and the feeding take hold on Marian, and she can stay awake in the dream no longer, hold on no longer to that perfectly peaceful reality-that-never-was, that never-will-be.

But when she wakes to her chambers, once again in France, the child is indeed stirring against her, ready to be fed, and thankfully the warm happiness of the dream stays with her, bringing her over the hump of sadness (for that moment) that she knows she must at some point confront.

* * *

**The English Channel -** We see Allan and Aislinn on their way home to England, taking the crossing. Aislinn's face clearly showing her excitement in the trip, while Allan's expression is harder to read. Tellingly, he looks back to where they've been, and though they stand next to one another at the railings, in contrast, she faces forward to England (where her heart lies).

* * *

**Sherwood Forest - snowy thicket near the source of the River Idle -** Gisborne's lifeless body still hangs by its arm from the bracelet that proved his undoing. There is an artistry, almost, in the camera shot, him in his black doublet against the white of the snow, dappled with his red blood. We see the black thorns (yes, we think they are there) the bracelet of his and Marian's hair has become, where otherworldly barbs have crept down to possess his arm like some bad-ass biker's tattoo, or something out of the Sleeping Beauty myth. Then, almost as quickly as we are sure of what we are seeing, they begin to retract their hold, and his body falls dully to the snow-covered ground.

But the vine does not return to the form of a bracelet. Half of it falls to the ground, near Gisborne's motionless wrist. It again becomes nothing but hair (Marian's hair, we are to assume), which a winter bird soon flies down to claim for nest making (yes, even in the snow). And so Marian's part of the bracelet will allow life to continue in Sherwood.

The other half of the creeping plant has withdrawn and wraps itself about the tree limb, where we hear SFX of its snuggling into the bark, and then, something like a plant exhale (assuming a plant can not only exhale, but that we can hear it). It will grow there, throughout the years, the only species of its kind, unique in all the world to Sherwood. But I would not get stuck by its prickers, were I you. They are sharp as razors, and hold an awful poison.

The camera leaves the shot of the tree and again finds Sir Guy on the Forest floor. This shot [bear with me here] takes its place with the shot of Allan and Aislinn crossing the Channel, and both shots begin to stack and assemble into a stained glass window effect (think something like those multi-screen shots on "24", but more elegant).

[Meaning no disrespect at all or in any way,] They are shown as a church-like stained glass window representation (one single window with its many panes depicting different scenes: the Martyr, the Disciples, religious Pilgrims, the holy Family). As though this window would be found under the rose window on the wall behind the altar at the Chapel of St. Robin of the Hood (were such a chapel, or saint to exist). At the half-oval top of this window are Allan and Aislinn (the Disciples), at the long, horizontal rectangle of a bottom, Sir Guy's body (the Martyr), and in the middle two square panes, side-by-side, are Marian, in France, in bed with the baby, and Robin's face as he looks out into Sherwood, hoping they can bring Little John out of his snow sleep, but also knowing that wherever John is at the moment, he is no doubt in a state of peace with the world, his mind, as always, with Alice and Little Little John, and Robin knowing, especially in his own current circumstance, how blessed such a place would be. And so our hero's face shows his own conflict over depriving John of even a moment longer in such a place.

Below the Martyr, a matching long rectangle, this one bisected on the slant into two right triangles: the Pilgrims. One showing Sir Clem, barely able to keep his seat on Bess, the other showing Wad, now searching the Forest for his friend and Master (without the helpful benefit of a tongue to shout his name and locate him).

Well beyond weary, and quite hoarse, Sir Clem still tries periodically to call for Robin, as he has no idea the outlaw has been found and returned to camp.

These six camera shots come together, in motion at first (each individual frame continues playing, that is), until all are in place, at which point they pause, with a special effect turning them almost into the less sharp-edged glass mosaics they are meant to mimic.

Andy Price will have composed some truly wistful, contemplative (yet ultimately hopeful) music to play over this sequence. It would be a combination of the Robin/Marian theme, "Not Kissing Little John", and a new theme for the baby.

The longer the music plays, the more we push in until our screen is filled with only the two frames of Marian and the baby, and Robin.

This stained glass window effect seems like it will carry us out of the episode, and indeed it is so satisfying and such a pretty piece of art, we would not mind it doing so, but at the last moment before the credits begin to roll, the image of Marian and the baby becomes live again, and we zoom in on it, until we see the surrounding room and recall that Tristan is there, too.

Marian is proudly showing the baby to him, and the child has Tristan's boyish finger tight in his strong grasp (archers, after all, start their strength training early).

**Tristan:** [smiling his pleasure at this new addition][expressing himself as his now-departed friend Llanio might] Him, we like.

Marian's confounded reaction to all but hearing Little John speak before her? _Priceless_. It is this expression (more of a smile than a frown) that is freeze-framed just before the credits run.

- End Episode 11, "A Matter of Life and Death" -

* * *

**...TBC...**


	49. Commence Episode 12

**Episode 12 - "Fight or Flight"**

_Previously on Robin Hood..._  
To sum up: Allan has paced the floor waiting for the baby's arrival like an expectant uncle, Much has had to run and fetch a midwife, Robin has (in a way) heard Marian's shouts as she gives birth. Little John's life hangs by a thread, and we have a new heir to Huntingdon.

With only two episodes left in the series, important characters are still separated by the English Channel, and more than one has been masquerading under an assumed name.

A very unpleasant gentleman from Salima's past has surfaced at Philip's castle, Gisborne is dead, and according to Queen Eleanor, the King is on the move.

* * *

**Sherwood Forest - Outlaws' Camp -** Not much later than when we last saw Robin and the gang. The Wadlowe midwife is still present, as she works to stop Little John's runaway bleeding so that he may be gradually brought out of Sir Clem's ingenious "snow sleep".

Clem has not returned to the Sherwood camp.

Robin has decided to have Alice Little and Little Little John sent for. (Not the most practical of ideas, to bring them to Sherwood in the winter, but he is reacting in the way he would like to be able to react for himself-that is, to bring Marian to be with him, so we forgive his momentary impracticality.)

**Robin:** [announces] We must bring John's family to him.

**Much:** [never one to wish his importance belittled (not really discounting Alice and Little Little John)] But _we_ are his family.

**Robin:** [not entering into an argument nor justifying himself to Much, simply talking] If he dies, they must be here. They would _wish_ to be here. If he lives, he will need them nearby to help heal. [with conviction, grown not only of Little John's situation] It is not right for a man to be separated from his family at such a time, nor his son from him.

_Though the harsh tone of Robin's words were not directly aimed at him, Much's eyes grow slightly round as Robin speaks, and he is sufficiently chastened so that he speaks no more. But he knows his master well enough to have realized that Robin's mind is not only on his current separation from Marian, but also his past separation from the Earl, at the time of his death._

**Nottingham - **The Sheriff, who had been utterly unaware of Gisbornes whereabouts is shocked (he doesnt like to be surprised, much less shocked) and dismayed to learn that that morning Gisborne had arranged to attend Confession in the long-unused castle chapel. The Sheriff is not sure what it means, but feels certain it does not bode well, particularly when the stables report that Gisborne's mount has returned without its rider.

The outlaws (minus Robin) retrieve and tie Gisborne's dead body to a spare horse (for surely they wish nothing to do with him) and let it go at the edge of Locksley village, from whence Gisborne's men find it and return it to Nottingham, and the Sheriff.

Robin chances sneaking into a deserted Locksley Manor, Gisborne dead and his men off to Nottingham, and finds Thornton. Together they hatch a plan to send a young house servant with a cart to retrieve Alice Little and Little Little John, bringing them to Sherwood.

It is the perfect opportunity to do so. With Gisborne dead, Locksley is briefly without supervision (beyond Thornton), and if asked no one need be told the cart was not sent on their deceased master's business. It will return (the Littles disembarking in the Forest) laden with badly-needed winter provisions for the villagers that have returned to their homes (following the exodus of the Sheriff's mercenaries). Provisions which will be generously distributed long before the Sheriff can bring the estate to heel.

And so in this way Robin has a small, yet satisfying opportunity to play Earl to his people.

* * *

Once they have crossed and landed at Dover, Allan and Aislinn manage to buy horses to make their journey to Sherwood both faster and easier (just one of the perks from their stash of minstrel gold, courtesy the Angevin and French nobility). In their travels they also are well-able to purchase rooms nightly at whatever inn they are nearest.

But we are shown, in several shots, that, even from Dover (if not before) they are being closely followed. The mood of the shots is potentially sinister, and even on horseback our duo cannot shake this, their new shadow.

To keep innkeepers with scruples (though there are not many) happy, and grease the wheels of their journeying together, Aislinn has maintained her costume of a young boy. She has even (quite happily) performed more than a few nights at the inns they frequent, adding further coin to their pockets. Allan, however, has not returned to his instruments, or his songs.

Aislinn also travels with a new companion: a staff, the one Marian (as the Lady Matilda) instructed her on, from Marian's position on a couch at the end of her pregnancy. Allan is aware Ash has picked up some small skill with a staff while in France, but he has no idea under whose tutelage. (And of course, neither does Aislinn, only knowing Marian as the in-confinement Lady Matilda, possible mother to Richard's bastard as in #39, "Keeping Secrets".)

* * *

**Nottingham - Salutation Inn -** Allan and Aislinn arrive still in their Court clothes. His contemplative mood ended by the joy of being on his old stomping grounds again, Allan sweeps into the Inn (Aislinn in tow) like its favorite son back from war. His arms raised as though to say, 'no, really, no applause, but yes, really, applause'.

**James, the Innkeeper:** [chuffed] 'Tis a cold day in Nottingham to be sure, when I find myself saying, _'this one's on the house, lads!'_

**Allan:** [grinning] But 'tis not every day your best customer and main attraction [pulls out a set of dice] returns to town.

_Allan and Aislinn 'belly up to the bar'._

**James:** [conversationally] You have been away long. Is it not hard in the Forest this time o' year?

**Allan:** [accepting a cup] Wouldn't know. Been traveling.

**James:** Then will you know news of your late master?

_Allan gives him a look to say, "Master? I have no master"._

**James:** Locksley's Lord Gisborne. He has been brought to town, dead. Many stories circulate, but no one seems to have a handle on the truth of it.

**Allan:** [surprised into telling it like it is] I know nothing of it. Truth or rumor.

**James:** Who is this you travel with? [meaning Aislinn, still in drag]

**Allan:** [shrugs] A boy I picked up, help in the con. No one of consequence.

**James:** [a clever sort, and used to all manner of unsavory activity][drops his voice] And what ken you of your other guest?

_Shot of the man following them huddled among the tavern's shadows._

**Allan:** Worry not for your chairs and bottles. I shall suss him out between The Bell and The Trip.

_James looks hurt, or rather, irritated at the notion Allan will be patronizing his competition._

**Allan:** [trying to recover][heartily] That is to say, between them geographically speaking, as I have no intention whatsoever of dropping good coin on thin ale and stingy portions of stew.

* * *

**Nottingham Town -** Allan and Aislinn make their way to the next stop (it is Allan's plan to arrive at Camp with the full complement of Nottingham gossip and reconnaissance, as he does not imagine anyone else has been able to keep up with his workload in his absence). And he is, of course, curious to know more of this news about Guy being dead.

They are on horseback. The man is still following them.

**Aislinn: **Buy me a hair ribbon, Allan. [his name seeming strange to her tongue after all this time] I wish to put on my own clothes at the next inn, and I shall be wanting something to remind myself-and Luke-that I am still a girl. _Despite_ my hair.

**Allan:** [tosses her a coin] Buy it yourself, Ash. The money's at least as much yours as it is mine. Probably more. [tosses her three or four more coins] Buy whatever you like. Once we are back in Sherwood, I do not doubt Robin will have all of it from us, and into the general fund it will go. [but he smiles when he says it, and it is obvious the notion of communal wealth and giving to the poor no longer vexes him as it once did]

**Aislinn:** Will you buy nothing for yourself?

**Allan:** [considers] Can't think of anything I need right now.

**Aislinn:** [conversationally] Or is it that you just like money?

**Allan:** Make no mistake, Ash. Money in a man's pocket is a good feeling. But no, there is nothing of which I need that money can buy.

**Aislinn:** [curiously, she has been wondering about this some time] Allan, how does a person know if you are telling the truth?

**Allan:** [too much himself to be annoyed or insulted by such a question] Well, Ash, and don't take this wrong...but they don't.

_They ride on a time without conversation._

**Aislinn:** Maybe you should work at developing a tell.

**Allan:** [appalled at the notion] And why would I want to do that?

**Aislinn:** You know, just so people who care about you might know.

**Allan:** [his eyes expertly scanning the crowd, he is back in full-on outlaw mode] Well, I think the idea, Ash, is that people who care about me [the words seemed like unfamiliar cobwebs in his mouth] _will_ know.

* * *

**Nottingham - The Bell Inn -** second stop in Allan's mini pub crawl. Aislinn has retreated to a room upstairs to de-man herself. Allan's reception in the taproom below is not dissimilar from that of the Salutation's.

**Peter, the Innkeeper:** What, ho, lads! Satisfaction has indeed brought him back, the cat we thought was killed! [observing Allan's rich style of dress] And Lady Luck has proven a kindly mistress, we see. [aside to others present][shouts, announcing what he assumes are Allan's immediate plans for his obviously full purse] Games of chance to begin momentarily in the back!

**Allan:** Whoa! [seeing the mass departure for the back room] Are so great a number here ready to take a chance on me? Have I left so very many of you paupers by my brief absence?

**Peter:** [suggestively] Nay, but you've left many a man's wife happier; her purse fuller and her honor sounder! [coarsely laughs][many join in]

_Aislinn comes down, dressed again in her old clothes, the ribbon she bought in her hair. The men that did not notice her going up the stairs as a young boy, are certainly noticing her as she comes down them as a young woman, short haircut or no._

**Allan:** Easy now, fellows!

_All turn to see what he will say to their catcalling and eager eyes._

**Allan:** My _sis_-ter [all groan] and I have yet business in the town.

_Allan expertly sweeps Aislinn out of the tavern by the front door, where they come face-to-face with the hooded man that has been following them._

Quick as a wink, Aislinn has her staff out and brings the taller man to his knees.

Allan takes a pause as he recognizes, in her action, what he has encountered before only as one of Little John's 'signature moves' (a move that Little John created, perfected, and sets a great deal of stock in-and pride by).

"Howd'ye like that," Allan says to himself, "me, played for a fool by Little John, of all people! Passing off something Ash could learn at the French Court as of his own making!"

When they de-hood the chap following them, he is still smarting from the staff strike, but also demoralized by something more. It is a face familiar to both Allan and Aislinn.

**Aislinn:** Michel!

_It is the man Michel, from Philip II's Court who, in #38 "Admirers All Around", Salima informs Allan is seriously crushing on Asher/Aislinn._

**Michel:** [taking in Aislinn's new-to-him look] Asher, you are not...

**Allan:** [going for ironic] Gelded? [no longer seeing the man as a threat][slapping him on the back in solidarity] Follow us but a bit further, to The Trip, man. You will be needing a strong drink.

* * *

**Nottingham - Trip to Jerusalem Inn -** Without giving away all that they are (or, in truth, who they really are), Allan and Aislinn attempt to explain the facts to Michel, who is rather undone by his discovery (and not entirely sure whether to believe it).

**Michel:** So, really, truly you are not...

**Allan:** [seeing things pragmatically, but not particularly sentimentally] Look, Michel, you shall have to take our word for it. You are not gonna to get a peek at that. Not going to be able to 'finger the cat', if you will, to establish her true sex...it is wot it is. And wot it is is wot we say it is.

_Aislinn shoots Allan a disapproving look at his language in regards to her._

**Allan:** [giving attitude back] Well, you're not gonna flash the chap, are you? Nor lift your skirts just to sort things faster, hmm? [to Michel] Look, I don't know much about love, but even I can tell you people have to be on the same page for things to work out, there. Not only do you two both seem to like, er, the same sort of partner, [looking to Aislinn, expecting her approval, like 'am I doing this gently enough for you?'] to put it delicately, but you don't even live in the same country. That's no beginning, man. That's a dead-end.

**Michel:** [tipsy from the strong drink, but resolute] I go where Asher goes. I follow him. [shakes head to try and clear it] I follow her.

_Aislinn steps in, finding her voice after her initial distress over Michel's having followed her under such mistaken pretenses._

**Aislinn:** Michel. You are my friend. I did not know. Well, in truth, perhaps I suspected...

_Behind Michel, Allan raises up so that Ash may see him making the 'cut the throat' gesture, meaning, 'abort! don't cop to knowing of his feelings'._

**Aislinn:** [trying to be kind] In love, two people must find themselves in the same place. [looking at Allan, pointedly] Not necessarily geographically. But their hearts much each be ready for the adventure at the same time. When my heart was ready for that I found my husband.

_Michel looks up, his final hope dashing before Ash's eyes._

**Aislinn:** [soldiering on] There will be someone ready for you, also.

_Behind Michel, Allan again raises up so that Ash may see him and re-makes the 'cut the throat' gesture, meaning, 'don't give him that tired line! Wrap it up!'._

**Allan:** Never gonna happen, man. [jerks his chin to her] Tell him, Ash.

**Aislinn:** [not liking the ruthlessness of the expression, but agreeing to the need for it][gently shakes her head] Never gonna happen.

_With little else able to be shared with Michel, and their own journey needing finishing, Allan and Aislinn take their leave of him, and The Trip. Allan, relieved to be well rid of the sorry chap, Aislinn feeling like dirt over having been the mostly unwitting cause of his injured feelings._

**Allan:** [at the reins of his horse] Do you really believe all that rot you told him in there? About love, and timing and whatnot?

**Aislinn:** Sure. I think life sometimes has to accomplish things within us before we're ready to love. The journey to that can prove longer for some than others. And then our hearts must find someone else in a similar place, and that itself is also yet another journey.

**Allan:** [hard exhale] You make it sound nothing short of a miracle that anyone ends up together.

**Aislinn:** [with belief] Well it is, isn't it?

**Allan:** [shrugging, non-committal] How should I know?

_But in that instant she thought she saw it, Aislinn Scarlet did, the beginning of a tell in Allan-A-Dale. Or perhaps it was as he said; there was no tell, but someone caring about him would just know when he was spinning them a yarn._

**Aislinn:** [without ulterior motive] Borrow the dagger?

**Allan:** What's that?

**Aislinn:** The binding of my chest. [looking down] It's been on me so long it will not unroll easily, so I will simply cut it.

_"It's gone," confessed Allan-A-Dale, and were it any other object he would have followed that statement with; 'gotta find me another.' But he did not._

For he felt very much the dagger was still his. Only, safely in the keeping of another.

What he found in that moment was that in thinking of that other, he tended to squint about the eyes, for he did not like the dark road his thoughts tried to travel down where the Lady Salima and the dagger he had given to her were concerned.

As was his usual way, he shook off the uncomfortable thoughts, trying not to notice they felt heavier every time he did so.

They had ridden just beyond the main gate of the walled Nottingham Town. He thought that he should remember to tell Ash of the time Much bull-headedly led a one-man assault to rescue Robin from within those very walls. To Allan, it seemed a lifetime ago, a time when he would have been hesitant (disinterested, even) to join in such a venture.

**Allan:** [with growing energy] Come, Ash, we are for Sherwood, and your husband. We are traveling players taking their ease no longer. Tonight, my girl, you cook for outlaws!

_Both 'yah!', slapping the end of their reins to their horses' haunches, until they are racing at a gallop toward the Wood, and home._

* * *

**Calais, France - Castle of Philip II - **It took the Lady Salima longer than she would have expected to examine the blade given her by the now-departed minstrel Llanio. _Allan_, she corrected herself. _If I am ever in a tavern in the East Midlands_. But of course her knowledge of English geography was nonexistent, and this area known as the East Midlands might have been called Shangri-La for all she knew of it. She had taken the dagger from him instinctually, not noticing she held it until he was gone from the chapel, and then she had found herself only able to recall that she must arrive to the Queen without further delay. Her prior mood was somewhat dampened, whether by her meeting in the chapel or her lack of interest in seeing the Queen, she did not know.

Without thought, she had hidden the blade in the waist of the red sari, and gone dutifully to report to the Queen. By the time she had found a true moment to herself (long after her royal audience and her further tending of Marian and the baby), it was some days after Llanio the minstrel-no, she must stop thinking of him that way-after Allan, had kissed it. Which had been a strange gesture, she thought in hindsight, as though he were a priest blessing it, or conversely, a worshipper kissing the ring of cleric. At the time her mind had been so full of all that was going on; the birth, her sudden release of happiness, this strange meeting in the castle's chapel, that she had not realized how odd that entire encounter had proven to be.

In the end he had told her truths for the first time: he was not named Llanio; he was no mere jongleur; he served the King; and he was leaving.

And somehow, he knew of the threat to her posed by Sir Gautier. _As a spy would_, she told herself. But it was therein that he had acted most peculiarly. He had not, as other men in her life (even as Carter) had done: he had not fought for (or over) her. Rather, he had placed a weapon into her own hands, empowering _her_ (though she did not fully understand what that might mean) placing the burden of action upon _her_. It rested in her hands like an unexplored possibility, a tool she had never before possessed. Something that could, perhaps (she secretly wondered, she feared), rend the Fate-woven fabric of her life, which threatened to smother her like a net without holes.

When she did screw her courage to a place that she might remove the weapon for the first time from its sheath, she _nearly_ dropped it clattering to the floor, loud enough in its impact, surely, to awaken Marian and the child.

There, on the polished and well-kept blade of superior Damascus steel she found a word in Arabic letters. It was a ridiculous word, in its way, to put on a dagger. A word meaning (though inexactly, in English) any of several things: happy, mild, peaceful, calm, _whole_, to be safe. A word that was, in fact, her name: _Salima_, a version of her birth country's greeting: '_salaam alaikum_'.

Shocked, confused, but questing to know, her hands shook as she worked to unwind the much-used leather thong that encased the handle. Shortly she could see gold shining like a secret beneath the unassuming covering. More frantic finger loosening later, and there they were (as she had expected, as she had feared), the dual divots meant to hold rubies. It was then she finally let it plummet to the floor as though it had burned her.

Her breath was uneven, her mind too stunned almost to process what she had found. It was the mate, beyond a doubt, the very twin of Carter's favorite dagger. For though it lacked the rubies in their settings, and though it bore an (unbelievable, unexpected, unexplainable) etching of her own name on the blade, there was no doubting its alikeness.

How had Llanio come to have this? _Allan_. How had Allan, who served Coeur-de-Lion, come to have this? And what, _oh, what_, did it mean? With still-trembling fingers she re-sheathed the blade hiding its timeworn inscription. Attempted, and failed, to re-lace the leather about the handle. Why disguise the grip of so fine a weapon?

Of Carter's dagger she had only known that it had been given to him as a gift from a friend back in England, in memory of his dead brother, Thomas, also a knight of Richard's. That he greatly treasured it. Its blade had been unadorned by etching or ornamentation. Its handle yet held its rubies, inlaid. And it lay with Carter, even now, under his Templar shield in the sands of his grave outside Acre, his body already buried before she had even yet seen him as a corpse.

How a matched set of Turk-crafted daggers came to be in possession of someone in England she did not know. How they then came to be separated, one, going to a Knight Templar returning to the Holy Land, the other, to a man masquerading at the French Court as a minstrel, was a conundrum she was well beyond solving. Had it but been a gift of the King, Carter would surely have told her, and then that part of the mystery solved: gifts of the King to those who served him. But it _must_ have been someone else. What other Englishman could these two very different men in her life have in common, as they had her?

Then there was the riddle of her name imprinted as the timeworn inscription. Had Llan-Allan known that? Could he read and understand Arabic? She recalled when they first met him saying that he had been to the Holy Land.

She felt as though she were on the brink of unearthing something very important, sliding the last tumbler in place in a lock so that it might open. But she could not yet put her finger on the thing, nor decipher its central enigma.

Yet, without her consent, her heart latched on to a dim possibility, faint and improbable, and without her consent it grew there, within her, waiting for the moment in which she would choose to bring it into the light.

It was then, for the first time, that she began keeping secrets from Marian.

It would not be the only secret she kept.

* * *

**SCENE:** Outside the Lady Matilda's guarded chambers.

Salima is returning from somewhere, well in sight of the door (and the Queen's own guards) when Philip's knight Sir Gautier of Laurent-Thibault steps out to block her path.

He is a great hulk of a man. His clothes, though lavish and the height of style and sophistication, in fabrics soft as eiderdown, belie who the man wearing them truly is. His face and body are hardened by years of battle, and scarred as well. He is a tough man, a man who understands cruelty and is not above torture, should it prove both needed and a good time. He was an effective soldier when he served, and in his forced retirement has proven a favorite among royal circles who enjoy graphic stories from the wars and insatiable drinking companions. But there is still something thuggish about him, and in such circles the women he tends to attract are often ones used to mistreatment (or ones who must quickly become reconciled to it).

As he speaks, his tone is unexpectedly quiet, yet no less hostile or aggressive than their last encounter, witnessed by Allan in #39, "Keeping Secrets".

Salima is taken aback for a moment. She had forgotten how very light was the striking blue of his eyes.

**Sir Gautier:** You and I've unfinished business. [he shakes his amputated wrist in the air, to show where its hand would be]

**Salima:** [not wishing to speak to him at all][her tone hushed, her focus on the door] You should not blame me for the loss of it. For but the price of that hand you kept your life.

**Gautier:** And yet lost my position by Philip's side in battle, my honor [so he believes], the widowed marquise I was contracted to in marriage, her rich dowry, [his good hand flexes menacingly. Were it not for the guards he would have it wrapped vise-like around her arm] and...do not forget: you. For you were mine, Wench, until you bade the surgeon lame me so that I could not keep you.

**Salima:** [attempting a calm appeal to his sense of reason, her eyes subserviently averted to the floor] 'Twas because of your injury that Sir Lauric left you with your life that day, and Philip ordered you home.

**Gautier:** [done speaking of the past] I am no fool not to know that you are a particular favorite of Queen Eleanor. Though, it is said, not much of her Court's. I will forebear today, in the presence of her guards. But do not forget that I know you. For all that your current mistress the 'Lady' Matilda is the one among you who wears the badge of Richard's harlot, we know true, do we not, Salima, who the harlot really is? Though not the harlot of Coeur-de-Lion, even, nor any king. Nor under any king's true protection. [looks from side to side, shrugs] Nor any man's, as I can see. [stone-cold] I will have you as my payment for what I lost, Salima Fa'ataar, or I shall take it out of you in kind, as you well know that I can. [adds a curse in Arabic] _Anta kalbee_.

_Seconds later and Salima is again alone in the passageway in front of the chamber door, the Guards, none the wiser, her only companions. Where it hides inside her garments, Allan's dagger burns like a heated poker lain against her skin._

**...TBC...**


	50. Arrivals and Departures

**Sherwood Forest -** Alice and Little Little John have since arrived at the Outlaw Camp (he perhaps more joyous about their coming than she), where Little John is slowly convalescing, proving a poor patient, and they have settled in (for the moment) to life there.

* * *

Allan and Aislinn's triumphant return catches the gang on the back-end of an operation and escape, so Luke has not yet come back to camp.

There is much back-slapping and high-spirits at everyone seeing each other after being separated.

**Much:** Ah, the minnesinger returneth. [trying to razz Allan, as he is so often razzed by him] Now we may enjoy [sarcastically] 'entertainment' without ceasing.

**Allan:** [dubious] Minnesinger?

**Much:** It is a German word for romantic love.

_Allan's face shows his surprise at such coming from Much._

**Much:** [insulted by Allan's genuine shock] I can...[splutters] know things!

**Aislinn:** Have no fear, Much. Allan's skill, as it were, has greatly improved while we were gone. At least, [grinning] so the ladies seemed to think. [all laugh uproariously, though the joke is not so clever a one as might deserve such an outsized response. They are glad to see one another again, to be together, a family, again.] He even turned the head of the Queen.

**Much:** [impressed, but also excited, as he counts her a friend] Eleanor? You performed for Richard's mother? [calling off to the side, toward the heart of camp] Did you hear that, Big Bear? Allan is back, and he has seen the Queen!

**Allan:** Wot's that? [looks about] Where _is_ John? Off with Luke?

_Robin shakes his head, 'no', biting his lip._

And so Allan and Ash, before they tell their own tale of time away hear instead the story of the past weeks in the Forest, Gisborne's death, and Little John's perilous injury.

**Allan:** [trying to clarify] And Sir Clem, he now walks?

**Robin:** [again similarly shakes head, 'no'] It would seem, as Fate would have it, that though he both walked and fought that day, he is unlike to do so ever again. He is over-spent, and has not left his bed, much less attempted to put his feet to floor, since his man Wad found and returned him to Knighton.

**Much:** [finishing for Robin] Though no one knows much of a difference, save us, as he had kept his reborn abilities secret from all.

**Aislinn:** [ever with the troubadour's heart, sounding a bit like Tristan] What a fantastic tale that will one-day make! To fight and best Gisborne, and yet to lose...

**Much:** [pragmatically calling Aislinn down][showing a bit of jealousy for her fantastic recent adventures, and the fact that _he_ is currently having to make lunch] Yes, but he's the one that has to live it now, isn't he?

_Moving to the center of camp where Little John is bedded (awake and able to listen), all settle in to eat and continue to share news. [Alice has taken off with Little Little John elsewhere momentarily, as she fears him knowing __too_ much of what goes on at camp, and sympathetically aware the gang needs a moment to reconnect and re-group.]

Conversation begins with more than a few slights to the origins of Much's cooking, and Allan and Aislinn sharing kindred looks over their plates, knowing better than to brag about the hearty rich fare they have been served during their time away.

**Much:** [trying to deflect further insults away from himself] What, no jolly stories to share of time at Court?

_Robin sees Allan getting ready to wind up and oblige, and stoppers it._

**Robin:** First, I think, we must be to business, saving cheery tales for the cold nights to come.

_Allan and Aislinn in tandem (they have not acted as an effective team these last weeks for naught), share the outcome of the Sheriff's man at Court._

**John:** [incredulous] You paid for this man to be waylaid by...[referencing #35 "The Nature of Love and a Good Brisket", stalls out on the indecorous word. Alice is, after all, somewhere about]

**Allan:** [shrugs] 'Twas all I could think of at the time.

**Robin:** [dubious as to the method] So you have spent all the monies sent with you? On wenches? For someone else?

**Aislinn:** [chokes a moment on her food] Hardly.

**Much:** [horrified] For yourselves?

**Allan:** [laughing] Nay, Much. Nay. Calm yourselves, gents. [pulls out his money pouch-pouches-drops them to the ground at Robin's feet]

**Robin:** [whistles][quoting one of Richard's favorite swears] _Old Henry's toenails!_ That is more than three months' thieving in Sherwood.

**Much:** [defensively] Unless we hijack a large shipment, which we often do.

**Robin:** [practically] Which are infrequent, at best...

**Much:** [still pouting, feeling outshone] Still...

**Robin:** How came you by it? Waylaying the barons on their way to the privy?

**Much:** Extortion? Thieving it while they slept?

**Little John:** [feeling better, and knowing Allan] Insurance against the seduction of their wives?

**Aislinn:** [bragging, perhaps a little][her tone like a little song] All earned, in the usual way.

_As Robin runs his hands through the wealth of coin, Allan shares the meat of his findings._

**Allan:** Queen Eleanor plays a dangerous game. Not tryin' to be funny, but to my eyes she's running a long con.

_Allan relates what is known of the Lady Matilda who is said to have Richard's child._

**Robin:** And the child's mother?

**Allan:** I never yet saw her, as she was in confinement when we arrived. [inclines head in Aislinn's direction] Ash spent no small amount of time with her.

_Aislinn nods her agreement to his assertion. But she does not volunteer more._

**Allan:** She is called Matilda.

**Much:** [brainstorming] Is that not Queen Eleanor's mother's name? Perchance it is a pseudo-, [stutters] pseudepigra-alias?

**Aislinn:** [looks to her staff][in some way, wishing to protect her friend] Is her identity so very important to us?

**Robin:** [studying on the situation] A child would, perhaps, call the King home. Particularly were it to prove an heir he must formally claim.

**Allan:** Oh, on that account...

_All present turn to him, even Ash, who has not been told his biggest piece of news._

**Allan:** I have it from the Queen's own mouth, to her Lord Chamberlain's ear, that Richard is even now in France, on an overland journey which will bring him to England. The child was born the very day we left Court. It was a man-child. But the King's true purpose in returning [smiles] is to be the tending-to of his rule, here.

_Robin gives an un-confidant look of skepticism (because he has to look at things with a critical eye, even when, as in this case, he does not want to). They have been taken in by rumors of the King's return before-most disastrously._

**Allan:** [continues on] Then again, perhaps the Queen plays two long cons. Yet, the King's return was tacitly a State secret. It was not published about, which makes me tend to credit it more.

**Aislinn:** [her old desire coming back from #37, "Not on Those Days", to add a romantic shine to the story of Matilda and Richard][defending her friend] Well, the Lady Matilda is attended by a most-exotic Saracen, which makes _me_ 'tend to credit' the tale of her and the King meeting in the Holy Land. Of a certain the babe is His. The Queen lies about nothing.

**Robin:** [magnanimously] That would set her [meaning the Queen] far apart from most other royalty; politics being based, often, on who can posture and invent the fastest.

**Aislinn:** Well, Allan knew the attendant well. Didn't you, Allan? [Allan has wandered over to Little John's side for a chat] Allan?

_But she does not further pursue the question, as she sees Luke coming toward camp through the trees._

Robin looked on wistfully as Aislinn touched a quick, insecure hand to her hair and took off at a run, racing toward Luke, toward her husband, and a reunion. Surprising no one, the couple did not continue toward the center of camp, but departed immediately for other parts of Sherwood and privacy.

* * *

**SCENE:** Post-news of the King returning, which has thrown a wrench into Robin's original plans to leave upon Allan's return, and find Marian.

Robin has walked some distance from camp, certain to avoid following any other footsteps or tracks visible, as he did not wish to stumble upon the reunited Scarlets, nor the Littles. But neither did he truly wish to be alone with his thoughts, with his current quandary.

It is not long before he encounters Vision Marian (whom you may recall from #15 "Crusader's Memory"), ready as always to chew over the decision he must make.

She is staunchly in favor of going to the King. (So we must assume, as Vision Marian comes entirely from Robin's psyche that at least half of his mind is also in favor. So in essence, he argues against himself.)

**Marian:** We've both sacrificed too much to Richard. Without him there is no 'us'.

**Robin:** [taken aback] That's extreme.

**Marian:** Very well, without him we can never live in the light. And the people we gave our lives to help (and the ones we could never even reach) will continue to suffer. Will we attempt to build our happiness on the backs of them? Is that not the very thing we live to prevent?

**Robin:** [sighs, _why can't she ever agree with him, with, what he at least thinks is his position on the subject?_] Marian, you have ever been a tourbillion, a tempest in a bottle. Can you not curb your intensity? I stand breathless in the face of your zeal.

**Marian:** [bringing it down a notch] The King is the key. He has ever been so. Without him, I think we must continue as we are. [her hands illustrate their separation, indicating the space between them even now in this clearing]

**Robin:** [impassioned] But that is the very problem, Marian. I do not _know_ how you are, and I have no wish to continue so. I am no longer willing to live as Pluto to your Persephone. Seeing you only by turns, and watching as Locksley and Nottinghamshire languish in your absence.

**Marian:** [with steady gaze] Then ensure the King's safe arrival on English shores. For as the King goes, so go I.

**Robin:** [bows his head, his position defeated] Yes. I shall see to Richard.

_Robin raises his head, his hand already outstretched, planning to take hers and find his way into an embrace, but when he lifts his eyes, Vision Marian is gone, like the transient mist now rising off the melting snow at his feet, the Forest warming as Spring finds its way surely back to Sherwood._

* * *

Robin announces his intention to the gang of going to meet the King in France and joining with Richard on his road to England. Much, knowing of Robin's prior plans to abscond and find Marian, is the only one surprised by the decision.

* * *

But it soon comes about that the gang must needs delay going.

**Alice Little:** Robin, he asks for you.

Robin goes to Little John's bedside, to see what the big man wishes.

**Little John:** [as always, a man of few words] I will with you to the King.

And so it is done. Robin grants John's request. They will hold off another week before departing, that Little John might further rest to accompany them on the journey south.

Conversely, no amount of delay, it seems, will enable Sir Clem to join them. He has not regained the full spectrum of use in his limbs, though his health is otherwise recovered, and even could they fashion a way for him to go along, any absence of his would be sure to be noted by the Sheriff and raise unwanted suspicions. Not to mention, chance his loss of Knighton and his re-instatement as its lord.

* * *

**Calais, France -** Salima, feeling more alone in the world than she has since meeting Marian, finds herself bisected, caught somewhere between joy over the baby, and all things related to Marian; a life at Court she is surprised to find dimmed by the loss of Allan's presence; and an overriding fear of her next encounter with Gautier, which she knows is only a matter of time.

Marian misinterprets Salima's mood, believing it to be rooted in insecurity, and her oft gloom-and-doom approach to life. Since Salima began keeping secrets, Marian has none of the right clues to decode the root cause of her friend's angst. Still, she tries to comfort her to make things better.

**Marian:** Salima, you love me, you love the baby, though I see you are terrified to say it. I will not take him from you. _Ever._

* * *

**Nottinghamshire, Sherwood Forest -** Surprisingly, Michel has found his way into Sherwood (though nowhere near Camp) to join up with the gang.

**Robin:** [with a cynical eye] Why wish you to join with us?

**Michel:** I go where Asher goes.

**Robin: **You have thought long on this?

**Michel:** I have thought of nothing else.

**Robin: **Though you understand that Asher, er, Aislinn, is wife to an husband, and you may have no part of that life with her?

_Michel nods without hesitancy._

**Robin:** And if trouble should arise from such, I would not tolerate it within my gang?

**Michel:** [earnestly] On my honor as a Frenchman.

**Robin: **Wherein lies my next question. You are French. Why, then, join with us? For those of us that are not outright Saxon are nonetheless Englishmen, and fight for England.

**Michel:** And does England not fight against you?

**Robin:** Certain sectors, yes. That is our chief complaint: Englishmen who abuse the English people.

**Michel:** French, English, it matters little to me, [shrugs] for I am a Jew, and as such hated by all countries. I choose my own battles, and I stand here to say I choose yours.

**Robin:** [charmed] Bold words, my friend. I shall consult Luke for in this instance I will do naught without his approval, and we shall see if you have what it takes to brave Sherwood, and its Sheriff.

* * *

**SCENE:** Allan is easily the most experienced of the outlaw band where women (of a certain type) are concerned, outpacing even Robin (who has, of course, retired some time ago) in his physical exploits. Pursuits which in the past Allan certainly has never shied away from sharing with the gang in great (and often interesting) detail when the mood struck him to do so. (To a band of men cloistered in the Forest, his stories, filled with bawdy tavern-style humor are not entirely unwelcome, though Much will prudishly pretend not to be listening when, in fact, his ears are nearly always attuned to the fantastical feats and sensual descriptions Allan relates.)

Allan's acquaintance with women, women of loose morals in particular, goes back to his 'hard-times good-time girl' mother (see #35 "The Nature of Love and a Good Brisket") and her various tavern-working colleagues. The bulk of his raising having taken place in a tavern's second-floor brothel has made him far from bashful about such things, and even further from being judgmental of such pastimes.

But it has not given him a very clear picture of a well-adjusted sex and home life. Brothel life is harsh, and at times often cruel, the women fierce of necessity, kindest to their fellow whores and children. And while, in the times and culture into which he was born, little or nothing is thought of a trollop beyond what one could buy from her (or take, if one is pitiless), Allan himself would never willingly have exploited or hurt such a woman. [The notion that engaging a prostitute was, in fact, exploiting her and perpetuating her own enslavement certainly not in existence during the Middle Ages.]

That said, Allan has been attempting to separate the concept of physical love one might buy or charm out of a woman from the concept of emotional, romantic love-which of course might ultimately terminate in a physical expression of love, but which is not built upon it. (Hard to do, coming from a world where physical pleasure-bought or taken, never given freely-is the sole end, and only sign and stand-in for "love".)

Finding Robin alone, he ventures to ask him about it. After all, Robin has been (however briefly to Allan's limited knowledge) a married man, and by all accounts, even Allan's, has shared a profound romantic love with Marian for years.

**Allan: **I would ask Little John [meaning, 'my questions'], but he'd just grunt and then go off and have a pout about Alice.

_Alice and Little Little John have left the Forest, as the gang begins their preparations in earnest for journeying to meet the King._

**Robin:** [his curiosity piqued by the nature of the questions posed] Are you saying you wish to take a wife? Where shall you keep her? [counsels] There are not many women like Aislinn, content in outlawry.

_Robin expects the usually explicit Allan run-down, which does not come._

**Robin: ** Alright, tell me about her...[meaning physically, Robin makes a gesture that is rather lewd, of a purpose]

**Allan: **[affronted, doesn't like the question]

**Robin:** [satisfied] There you go, Allan, you've answered your own query. Didn't even need me.

**Allan: **How's that?

**Robin:** Allan-A-Dale, unwilling to sing the praises of a woman's form? Either she is supremely homely-in which case you are so in love you will not even lie to me about her appearance, or you have developed a long-overdue sense of propriety, and wish to protect her from unsavory commentary and licentious eyes. In which case you are in love. [tickled at the thought] The simple fact that you bothered to ask yourself the question to begin with: you are in love. I wish you all joy.

**Allan:** [surprised by Robin's insight] You do not think that it is only that I have not "had" her? That this is only due to unsatisfied lust?

**Robin:** [shocked. _Allan has not yet sampled the woman's treasures and he is speaking of love?_] Hah! And yet she haunts you with such questions? 'Tis love, of a certain. Bring her, I shall see you married forthwith.

_Allan reacts, his concerned expression hardening._

**Robin:** [gets it] Ah. You are separated by the Channel. [his own mood darkens]

**Allan:** By far more than mere geography.

**Robin: **Married?

_Allan shakes his head; 'no'._

**Robin:** Holy Orders?

_Allan shakes his head; 'no'._

**Robin:** Then do not give up planning, Allan. I have never yet known you to be boxed in by any situation from which your superior wits could not free you.

_But Allan could not tell him, chose not to tell him, that though he saw the world as many things: grifter, thief, outlaw, and man...he had never yet learned how to see it, how to navigate it and understand the way in which it turned, as a lover._

* * *

**Beyond the borders of England's shores -** This next bit would be, initially intentionally disorienting to viewers. We are not entirely sure where we are located on the map, nor where in the timeline of the series.

There is a great deal of sand shown in the establishing shot, so we may well be in the Holy Land, or, even, on the shores of France. (The look of the scene starts out lit and colored like Robin's dream/flashback in "Tattoo? What Tattoo?")

As we follow the camera inside the largest tent among the many pitched, we see Richard, Coeur-de-Lion, the King, tossing (though not too wildly) in His sleep.

But again, where, and when, are we?

**SCENE:** _Richard dreams_. He dreams of Portugal, of wintering there. He dreams of Himself carrying the paper to Robin, whom He found carelessly astride a third-story window, having seated himself on its narrow ledge observing the townsfolk below. The King feels strongly that Portugal was the right choice, before continuing on their journey. The day is bright and sunny. Robin's hair and complexion have both begun to show its effects, one lightening, the other darkening with the constant exposure.

He brought him the paper personally, as Locksley was one of the few of His lords (though young) that was himself educated enough to read, and such news seemed, perhaps, more real written down.

It was a rather rote report from Robin's home shire, but among the notes of cattle bought and squabbling neighbors was the brief legal statement that the marriage contract between Edward, Sheriff of Nottingham and Robert, Earl of Huntingdon which was to have joined their children and thus their estates, had been dissolved.

The King sees the momentary flick of concern on his young knight's face when he first recognizes the Sheriff's coat-of-arms at the top of the document. But the expression is fleeting, and upon his comprehension of what has passed, Sir Robin of Locksley appears soon enough reconciled to it.

_Richard dreams_. A night on the battlefield, a good day, one in which He prevailed. However, upon returning to camp, and settling into the necessary attention given matters of State, He finds He must call for Robin.

As Robin enters the King's tent (he is never far from it) we briefly glimpse Much, left behind to wait outside for his master. Robin reacts oddly to the unusual obeisance done him by the guards at the tent flap. He can sense something momentous has changed.

**Richard:** It seems We bring you only ever ill news, Captain of Our Guard.

_Robin looks suspicious._

**Richard:** [cutting to the chase] Kneel, Robin of Locksley, son of Robert, and give Us your heart and fealty, [significantly] _Huntingdon._ [extends His ring]

Robin drops to his knees (though some of the whole-heartedness of this movement may be due to the suddenness of the news that his father, yet not an old man, has died). He kisses the King's ring, says his oath (which he has memorized since a child, starry-eyed at the thought of pledging himself to a king), and in a moment Richard is across from him, having dropped to one knee, the hand with the ring just kissed now behind Robin's neck in a gesture of comfort and solidarity. Richard kisses Robin's cheek (in a manly way), and strongly grips him with His arm in an embrace.

For a moment, Robin allows himself the informality of burying his head in Richard's Lionhearted shoulder.

_Richard dreams_. Sweat and fever, a wound swiftly going sour. Floating in and out of consciousness. The concerned, but beautiful, face of the Sultana Salima; sometimes close, as when she is tending His bandages, sometimes distant, as when she is watching over Him during the long nights of His illness. But always present.

_Richard dreams_. A searing pain in His shoulder, a useless arm, dust in His nose, eyes, mouth. The weight of the horse fallen atop Him. But oddly, a young woman. Saxon, He thought. _What was she doing here?_ Her clothing white as angel's wings, she speaks of love. She begs a man for the life of her King. _His_ life. The menacing glint of steel so familiar to His eyes in this desert place, but He cannot move. He has no weapons, He is (as a King should never be) a warrior, unmanned. He can protect neither this lady, nor Himself. She sheaths the sword, unnaturally, deep in her abdomen. Her action, her death, as stalwart as any knight's (Saracen or European) He has yet seen.

_Richard wakes_. He calls for His valet, though it is yet deep in the night. [The text at the bottom of the screen now lets us know] He is camped somewhere in Middle France, the sands outside not of the Holy Land as we had perhaps assumed. So it is true. The Queen did not lie. Richard Plantagenet, son of Henry, heart of a lion, is on His way north.

**Richard:** [addressing the valet][declares, pleased] We have had an oracular dream.

_As is His way, Richard often forgets things not of immediate use to Him, and Marian and Salima have surely been far from His mind this final stretch of His Holy War. The dreams have returned them to the forefront of His thought, which He welcomes, knowing that for the moment His mission is not one of war, but of reconciliation and order-bringing._

He will not tempt what powers that be that sent Him the dreams, which He chooses to believe are a message, an instruction for Him to follow.

So the King called for the man with whom he wished to speak.

**Richard:** William?

_We are shown, in a spinning shot to reveal who is opposite the King, that it is (of all people) Will Scarlet that He addresses, temporarily attached to His traveling Court, along with his Saracen wife as Councilors, having proven helpful consultants and translators in the peace-making process so recently concluded._

Will still wears his Sherwood tag, prominently displayed on the outer side of his tunic as proudly as were it a Templar's cross.

**Will Scarlet:** [not really sure why he was called out, singly, to meet with his sovereign] Yes, your Majesty?

**Richard:** [grandly, as though in His throne room, and not at all in His traveling tent] We give to you the honor of telling the men that We change our course today, to the north, to Paris and beyond. _Le roi le veut_. For We find We've a need to attend upon Our mother's Court visiting in Calais, and there retrieve something.

_Will, never one to be totally at ease with the King, especially without Robin, and when Richard was in full-on 'royal we'-mode, cannot sufficiently stifle his look of puzzlement._

The King is too pleased with Himself to much mind.

**Richard:** [chiding him, though Will has not asked any questions] Do not beseech Us to tell you what such a parcel may be-only that it is for love of your Hood We thus incommode Ourself...and Our men. [dropping for a moment into a more laid-back mood][very pleased with Himself] You know, Master Will, I do not doubt this gift shall prove a perfect fit.

_Will manages a chary smile, as though 'oookay', and if D'Jaq were present he would certainly have shared with her a look of eyebrows raised in question at the King's sphinx-like proclamation._

But D'Jaq was not present, so he does as he was commanded. And shortly went to find her, wondering what Robin could possibly have need of that currently rested with Queen Eleanor, and her Court.

**...TBC...**

_**Please note that due to circumstances beyond the author's control, this is the last part that will be available until on or around Wednesday, 6 October 2010 (at the earliest). Regrets.**_


	51. Taking Back What Is Yours

_Author's Note: The following section contains "V" for violence, inconsistent with the type of violence one might see on the actual show. So, though I said I wouldn't do this again, I'm giving a T+ rating to this section._

* * *

**England - Sherwood Forest -** The gang is to their departure moment, the camp packed away and the last bit of camouflage placed about it.

Allan-A-Dale is settled against a nearby tree, his saddlebags beside him, staring at the hidden lever, but not really seeing it. It has not been so very long since he and Aislinn returned to England. His mind is far away, in France, with the dagger he left behind, and the woman who carries it.

[Allan's POV] They had not been heroic, his actions where the knight Gautier was concerned. Not at all the way Robin, a _true_ hero (to Allan's eyes), would have done it. But Allan knew. The Lady Salima was not a child. He could not fight this for her. Did not think she wished him to.

Perhaps he understood something in the situation that Robin would not. Perhaps such a choice to break with one's past, one's previous circumstances, to oppose one's oppression, must truly be one's own; not a rescue as Much would wish to perpetrate, not a liberation via a combat on her behalf that Robin would have, in his wish to quickly right wrongs, enacted (perhaps ending in a feeling of obligation, of inequality by Salima).

Allan had no wish to have Salima indebted to him, to inspire feelings rooted in little more than a sense of duty, of payback or a staked claim.

He did not, of course, know any particulars of her situation. He did not pretend to. And in fact, he found he spent rather a shockingly large portion of his free time trying to keep from darkly speculating on them. (Didn't work, he thought on them anyway, darker and darker they grew.)

He listed (for the ten-thousandth time) what he knew of her, of her history: #1.) She was half-Saracen, considered by most among both her birth races as sub-human. #2.) She was alone in the world, with no visible family or support structure. #3.) She served Richard (by her own admission). #4.) There was a fishy smell to the tale being sold about her lady's child. #5.) Yet, he did not believe, in all her prevaricating on that subject (or any other) that she had ever lied to him. And, #6.) this man, a Crusader knight of the French nobility, had treated her with less courtesy than the least tavern wench, or halfpenny street prostitute.

It was clear they had a history with one another. Clearer still she had been, perhaps always, an unwilling participant in that history. And that that history had been a violent one was not even a point requiring any discernment to see.

The full scope of the situation his departure had abandoned her to, he did not know. ('Abandoned', he did not like the taste of that word in his mouth.) Perhaps she would yield to this man as a point of survival. Certainly, in such a circumstance it was an option. He would much rather she defy him. For though he knew there were worse things to be found in life than assault upon one's physical self, he also knew such assaults to be among the most demoralizing to one's spirit, and the hardest to shake. And it seemed quite clear to him from stories heard (tavern and fireside, by wench and by wanderer) that many men serving in Richard's Crusade (save, it would seem, Much) would know (if not enjoy) more than a little of rough treatment and peculiar appetites.

And still, he would not wish her hurt. In any way. Neither by her submission, nor by her refusal.

He tried to think on Robin's lot, on how he must have felt and coped when Marian had of necessity to keep Gisborne on the dangle, had to ever invent ways to put him off. (Or accommodate him to a point.)

But it was not a situation like Guy and Marian, where, for the bulk of the time Gisborne had to at least cloak his desires and demands in courtesy due to Marian's station in life, had to assay some level of civility, of courtship-like behavior.

No, in contrast to Marian's lot, the Lady Salima's place in life was a precarious one, just as it was an unsolidified one, not properly established in any hierarchy. She existed within the Court sphere only insofar as she was tolerated or useful at any moment.

His mind brought him sorrowfully back to the central point: there was no one to look out for her. It was a position in life Allan-A-Dale knew all too well.

What might be taking place (or not taking place) in France Allan had no way of knowing. As he sat, moments away from leaving Sherwood to join (with his fellow outlaws) the King, he did strongly feel of a certain he knew one thing: though his mind, his cunning and his experience told him he had done the right thing (leaving with news of the King's return, giving Salima the dagger, not sharing his thoughts with her any further), he certainly was not turning out to be very much of a hero.

**Robin:** [already mounted up] Come, lads! We go! We ride for France, and the King!

[in sort of a Three Musketeers' moment]

**All:** For France! For the King!

* * *

**Calais, France -** The baby has grown (not so very much, really, just grown out of his initial freshness to the world in the time it took Allan and Aislinn to return to England and Sherwood, and Little John to further mend for that extra week. So he is perhaps a month or so old.)

The Queen's continuing behavior would seem to indicate that she has herself perhaps begun to believe her own lies: that Robin of Locksley's child is her grandchild, and possible heir to the throne.

Eleanor has more than taken to the child, and her eager and continued use of the baby (displayed for all to see as Richard's child) births a fear in Marian, who, for the most part has lived the past month in a happy haze of long days of delight and joy, and peaceful (though often lengthy) nights with her son; the closest she has been able to be to Robin in nearly a year. [Though, of course, it is no substitute for the real thing.]

Her happiness has returned her strength to her quickly, and just beyond the month mark she has even found the power within herself to go riding, twice.

It is after one of these rides that Salima notifies Marian upon her return that Queen Eleanor has arranged for the child's Christening to occur at the castle chapel, under a favorite cleric and confidant of the Queen's.

**Marian:** [thrown for a loop by the news] But, _Robin_. His father-his father is not here, and I, I have no name for him!

**Salima:** [seeing Marian's reaction, she does speak with some amount of gentleness] The Queen has also bid me tell you he is to be called Henry, after the old king.

**Marian:** [horrified] She names my child? _My_ son?

**Salima:** [nods, her experience with the demands of royalty somewhat broader than Marian's] And will name his godparents, too, I do not doubt. That is how it is done, by Christians, is it not?

**Marian:** [almost unable to find the words, she repeats the unthinkable thing she has been told] She will name him? Have him christened without his father present?

**Salima:** [Marian's negative reaction stronger than she had expected] Would it not be, for many nobles, the highest of honors to have the Queen Mother take such an interest in their child as to bequeath him with both a name and her special attentions?

_Marian nods, absently agreeing. She takes the child from Salima's arms, her expression is somewhere between bleak and growing more stubborn by the minute._

**Salima:** [shrugs] How can you change what a queen does?

**Marian:** [as though Salima had not spoken] And when is this to occur?

**Salima:** Tonight, before Vespers. A gown has been sent for him.

_The ornate gown (clearly meant for royalty) rests on the chambers' bed. Marian walks over to it, still holding the child, and takes one hand to finger the exceptionally soft, light-colored fabric, the elaborate lace-worked edging._

**Marian:** [as though considering] _Indeed_, how can you change what a queen does?

* * *

Just prior to Vespers that evening, Salima is returned to Queen Eleanor's chambers for something (to be honest, rather inconsequential) that has been forgotten, but that the Queen finds to be direly needed for the Christening.

The Lady Salima is just now hurrying back toward the chapel, the item in her possession.

The chapel, while not filled, is nicely attended by the Queen's inner circle and several notable barons both French and Angevin, with Eleanor planning to stand in the stead of the absent father (which those present will assume to be Richard, whilst in truth it is Robin).

Unlike Marian's, Salima's own response to the occasion, one that seems to be celebrating life and the baby, is quite happy. Henry, in any case, is not so terrible a name. She doubted she could herself think of one much better. The Lionheart's father's name was a strong one, to be sure, the King's sire a strong man himself, no doubt. The entirety of King Richard's person could not solely have come from Eleanor, after all.

**SCENE:** She heard footsteps coming toward her. They were quick and deliberate. She was rather certain that everyone in this wing of the castle was currently in attendance at the chapel, waiting for the service to begin.

There was something her heart found sinister in the rapidly approaching footfalls, and as she passed by the spot where the arras with the hidden alcove was to be found, she attempted to plunge behind it, until the owner of the footsteps had passed by and she might travel on to the chapel.

But she had no moment, even, to reminisce about her last time behind the heavy tapestry, for within a split-second of her dive for the safety of the hidden recess, her head just barely into the full-dark, a large, hardened hand had her by the base of the neck, jerking her into the light, her shoulder blades thumping along the uneven stone wall they were dragged across.

As her heart, fluttering wildly as a newly-caged bird's, had feared, it was Sir Gautier. She imagined he looked at her very much as he might look at a rat caught in his sleeping chamber that has been giving him trouble of a night: with great relish.

She could smell the scent of him, less of leather, though, as his clothes here differed greatly than those worn in the Holy Land. But the smell, pungent and in its way, powerful, the smell of a type of manliness overcame her senses, and she felt herself tumble backwards, as though down an unseen incline, into the past, and the memory of him, what he was like, and what she had found those years ago she must do to withstand, to endure him.

**Salima:** [her voice sounding unusual, the consequence of the mighty hand at the base of her throat] I am wanted by the Queen.

**Sir Gautier of Laurent-Thibault:** Eleanor has more pressing matters to attend to than you, Salima. Running errands for Angevin royalty? I think you have forgotten who your true master is.

_She washed her exterior self of emotion. She knew from experience he could still see enough fear in her to excite him. Were he not able to recognize he terrified her, things would always turn far worse than...she buried the thought of anticipation over what was to come. "What will be will be," she told herself, surprised that she needed reminding._

**Salima:** [raspy] She expects me.

**Gautier:** As do I, [leans in to her] whore.

_"It is only for me to stand up again after this has passed," she told herself._

He let her down from where she was pressed into the wall beside the arras, quite violently. Salima collapses onto her bum. Emboldened by the fact they are truly alone, Gautier goes down on his knees beside her, pulling her jaw painfully forward with his hand, and shoves what he can of his wrist stump in between her teeth in what telegraphs as a sexually charged (for him) act of domination.

**Gautier:** More than your tongue will prove forfeit if you do not comply with your master. If you do not surrender yourself, give way to me willingly, and of your own power submit to me in all things, I will reveal your lie, and the lie of this woman whose company you keep. [demands] Return to me. The life of this Lady 'M', and her child, rests in your hands.

_She cannot keep herself from gagging from the pressure in her mouth, her over-extended jaws unable to accommodate the part of his arm he has thrust into them. She fights against the rising panic at losing the freedom of her breath._

**Gautier:** Do you like such a feeling of power over others, dog?

_Gautier withdrawals his wrist from her mouth, his arm with the amputated hand moving to hold her down onto the floor at the ribcage, its forearm running parallel to her sternum._

Salima is pinned to the floor, just in front of the arras. As he jerked her into this position, her head is knocked hard against the stone floor, setting her ears ringing, and she can not get a good breath with his pressure on her chest. She has not even enough air to whimper.

With his free (and only) hand he takes the knife from his belt and makes two cuts. Salima's eyes react to the sight of his over-sized knife (far too large just to use at table, it is nearly a third the length of a broadsword). It is no stranger to her.

First, he cuts a perfect half-moon around her breast, so that the fabric of her garments (multi-layered as is the fashion) falls away and her bare anatomy bursts forth, unrestrained. The expertness of this cut is such that her skin is not even nicked, and not a drop of her blood is spilled.

Aggressively and with a twisted passion he brings his mouth down on her tender flesh there even as he makes a second cut.

**Gautier:** I have forgotten it not, Salima, the sweetness of your skin in my mouth. Like cream to the cat.

_The second cut starting just below the waist of her dress, he slices her skirt from hip to hem, not even looking as he does so, as his face is still buried in her chest._

Again, no cut is made to her skin, but once his knife is free of the skirt's now-split hem, he looks up, sheathing his knife and sliding his hand onto Salima's now-bared hip until he finds the spot he is looking for.

Eerily, in his first act resembling tenderness, he caresses something there on the rise of her naked hip. As his hand moves to stroke it again, the camera shows us what it is: a crude knife-cut, some years old, but still, the scar is visible, and to a hand, palpable. Scored into her, like a carving on tree bark, the entwined letters of 'L' and 'T', for Laurent-Thibault.

It is not the only, but the most significant cut given to her by this man.

**Gautier:** [quietly, his hand still to her thigh] I shall bleed and butcher you, Salima Fa'ataar, until you remember whose you are. I shall carve you like a pig-like the unclean thing you are. Like the dirty swine your heathen kind refuses to touch.

_Something stirs from behind the nearby arras, and young Tristan appears. He had apparently been hiding behind it and has been trapped there by what has transpired._

Gautier slowly stands.

One very threatening look from the knight, and the twelve-year-old's valiant rescue is over before it begins.

In his fear, he is frozen in place. Thoughts of how brave Robin Hood might react, or even how his friend Llanio might handle the situation had proven enough to instill him with courage to take the first step to help the Lady Salima by showing himself, but the far more real existence of a revered, notoriously strong Crusader knight and French nobleman on the other side of the arras he has forsaken prove too much for his loyal boy's-heart to overcome.

His knees knock.

**Gautier:** [addressing Tristan. Not at all bothered that the boy has unwittingly spied on his attack of Salima] There, Page, [spitting off to the side, as if trying to empty his mouth of the flavor of Salima's breast] is your first lesson of Crusade: taking back what is yours. [coarsely laughs]

_Tristan trembles in his presence, eyes large, looking as though he wishes he could melt back into the wall, though Sir Gautier makes no move to menace him._

**Gautier: **[to Salima; dishonored, partially disrobed, and humiliated on the castle floor] You have three days. Return to me, or see their safety forfeit. [leaves]

**...TBC...**


	52. Flight

_It is October 14th, and surely some sort of tragedy would befall me, did I not manage to post an update on Robin's birthday. Author's Notes and Indulgences are now updated through this section. (small voice: yay!)_

* * *

Five or more minutes easily passes before either Tristan or Salima make any movement, before anything more can be heard than their still-desperate breathing.

Tristan stands arrow-straight against the wall next to the arras. His mind is spinning, still in such a fright that it is all he can do to wonder whether he may have humiliatingly released his bladder.

When enough time has passed, his eyes, focused on the retreating-'til-disappeared back of Sir Gautier, come back under his power, and he turns them to Salima, still on the floor.

Unlike the reaction of his peers at the castle might be, the sight of her, following the violent treatment she received at the hands of Gautier, nearly causes his heart to break. Far from inspiring a desire within him to treat her similarly, the harshness directed at her has instantly rendered her, finally, human to him. (Though his reversal on this point has been a long time coming, and was sped along in many other ways.)

It startled his twelve-year-old self, how fragile she appeared. Though he had only heard (concealed behind the arras) Gautier's assault of her, he could now catalogue its full effect before him.

Her hair, which had been fancily dressed for the Christening, was wrecked, knotted where it should not be, and half out of its plaits. Her mouth and lips appeared swollen. Having had to accommodate the circumference of Gautier's wrist had split her lips in several places, which now bled, unchecked, like the near-tears still swimming in (but not overflowing) her eyes.

Her dress was well-ruined. It had been of a fine and expensive material (again, also for the important event in the chapel), which would have been spoilt and tattered easily by the harsh treatment, even had it not been deliberately cut. The knife slits he could hardly look at. The Lady Salima gagged and coughed again, still struggling to replace the air lost her, and her bosom further strained against the already disastrous cut to the bodice of her gown. In response, it unraveled several inches further. She brought her legs around to her as she tried to sit up on the floor and the slit to her hip saw that fabric do likewise. She was, quite literally, coming undone.

Though Tristan was but twelve, he was a castle page, during a festival-like time at Court (and hardly a modest court to begin with, at that). He had seen more than anyone's share of female nudity. And though he had never yet spied the breast of a half-Saracen woman, he felt very certain that the one of which Gautier had exposed on Salima should not be purpling so on the underside, nor be so adorned with teeth markings.

Her exposed thigh he tried very hard to look away from, though he had seen enough of Gautier's actions to know that something in not the usual spot had very much interested the Crusader there. In a weird feeling of both curiosity and aversion, Tristan looked away, not wishing to see 'the usual spot' of this, his (newly understood to be) friend.

He did not know if it was okay to approach her. He felt her so fragile he feared she might be injured further by only the strength of his gaze.

Somehow, amazingly recalling the item she had been sent to retrieve, Salima speaks, "I must deliver this to the Queen." She seems dazed, still shaking, and unaware of the entirety of her condition. She realizes the object is still in her grasp.

Tristan walks toward her. "Lady," he says, his tone gentle, yet he is near tears himself. "You may not appear before Her Majesty just now. Let me help you to your chamber, where you may rest."

The sound of his familiar, unintimidating voice seems to bring her somewhat back into herself. Her first thought is for him. "Has he hurt you?" she asks, as though she cannot fully recall all that took place only minutes ago.

"No, no. I am well." A boyish tear slides down his cheek, to see this woman, herself so injured, ask after his well-being, in the way, perhaps, a mother (of which he has no memory of) might. "I failed," he confessed to her, coming closer, his own crisis of conscience spilling out. "I could not protect you. I wished to. I did! Robin Hood would have stopped him for you. The Lionheart, himself...he would have..."

Salima slowly shook her head, 'no'. "You are a boy, Tristan, and yet a good boy, but Sir Gautier is no man easily to be stopped. And he is, in fact, an ally of King Richard." She spoke from her place on the floor, where she continued lightly to shake.

Tristan came to sit near her, his tangled-up thoughts wishing, in a way, to comfort her, but not knowing the first step of how to go about it. Her words, that this man, now proven a beast, was somehow connected to the Lionheart dismayed his logic. "Is it true," he asked, "that this French knight, Sir Gautier, that he owns you? That you belong to him?"

"I belong," she said, flatly and without further explanation, "to no one."

But Tristan cannot fully let go of his heroic speculations, nor his own failure. "If Llanio were here, I'd go and..."

"He is not here," Salima declared, her back straightening, as though the minstrel's name further recalled her to her current condition. "I would not have him here to see this for all Queen Eleanor's gemstones." She brought a damage assessing hand to her exposed, traumatized breast, showing no false modesty of it where Tristan was concerned.

Neither did she attempt to shield her bared leg and thigh from him as she slowly stood, testing her limbs for injury. Had she been someone else she might have attempted to hug the page, to comfort him in some way physically over what had passed, but she did not. In this way she treated him as her equal, as an adult, a second victim caught in this act of violence. Her standing unassisted showed him that it was also what he must do: stand up, and carry on.

"You must take this to the Queen in the chapel. She has need of it," and she handed him the foolishly insignificant item that had first opened the door to all their present troubles.

"Where will you go? You must not go alone! I will go with you, see you to the door of your chambers." Curiously, Tristan suddenly found he had no wish to be parted from her.

Her damaged lips (their bleeding stopped, but the aftereffects still floridly visible) spoke the truth, but she was sure he doubted her: "You need have no further fear, Tristan. Not for yourself, not for me. Laurent-Thibault," she used the name of the knight's ancestral home, the initials of which she wore, eternally on her thigh, "will keep his word. All of them. He had given me three days. I shall not be troubled by him before then. I am safe to return to my chambers without an escort." She did not smile at the incongruity of the word 'safe'. "Go, now, to the Queen."

* * *

After he had left on the errand, Salima walked the long passageways until Marian's chambers. Her mind felt numb, unable to function properly beyond working her feet and legs so that she might walk. She saw no one, as though she was a ghost in an abandoned castle, set to wander without finding peace.

It had been more than two years since she had been touched by a man in any way (that stretch broken when Gautier first encountered her in #39, "Keeping Secrets"), and then the hands on her had been Carter's, kind and loving. It had been well-longer than two years since she had experienced mistreatment at the hands of another.

And in that time her life had changed so utterly. She had known so many things for the first time: safety, happiness, laughter. Even, love. She had found a dangerous security (though she had not let herself see it as such) in her position with Marian, with the baby. She had come to let herself believe it might endure. She had encountered and even befriended people as she had never done before: Tristan, Llan-Allan, to a degree Sir Robin; and Marian, a friend like such she could never have imagined, and the baby-the light of her days now on earth.

She felt herself involuntarily shiver with the thought of what was to come, that she would lose all this. That she _must_ lose it all, in order to keep it safe.

She was in sight of the chamber door. Though she had no strength left to do it, she nonetheless fell into a mad run to the relative seclusion the rooms offered, seeking out the darkest corner, stripping her ruined gown from her as though poison were stitched into its seams, and throwing it onto the fire.

* * *

**Lady Matilda's chambers -** Some brief time has passed and Salima has attempted to clean herself up.

Marian burst into the room at a near-gallop. The Queen had proceeded with the Christening though Salima never returned with the smelling salts she had requested. Her Majesty's mood had been such that she did not even seem to mind or note her attendant's tardiness. Although there was a fair degree of pomp (far more than one would find at a Locksley chapel Christening), things were concluded fairly quickly so that the after-party might begin. So her child had been baptized into the Church, and given the name Henry. Marian had not been able to even concentrate all her angst on that point, so distracted she had been over where Salima had gotten to. Time as the Nightwatchman and intimacy with Sherwood Forest's folk had honed her sixth sense, and time away from such a life had done little to dull it.

When Tristan arrived, himself quite tardy, with the requested salts, and news that the Lady Salima had fallen ill, Marian did not stand on ceremony. She let Eleanor have the keeping of the bab-of the newly-Christened Henry-for the moment and took off at a tear (as much of a tear as one might take off in when richly dressed in long skirts for such an occasion) to find out what was going on. Salima was never sick, never tardy in anything.

In the intervening time, what Salima had failed to realize was that in the past, in her life of ill-use and mistreatment, she had been part of a far-different society than that of an established, "civilized" Court.

Were she to have a bruised face (as she did when Much was sent to fetch her to an ill Robin in #28, "That Woman, an Undeserving Enemy") she went on about her life, continuing to appear in public with a bruised face. Were she to be set upon in a public place, when the air cleared, she stood up and carried on. Those around her (generally, other men, Crusaders or, earlier, Saracens) took little notice and usually less care. She was a part of the landscape, a campfollower-until she was called upon (usually briefly) by the King or another in need to be something more.

But the conventional Court of a crowned head is quite a different place. Noblewomen did not generally simply appear in public with bruises or marks of violence that begged explanation. Acts of rape and battering generally took place in semi-privacy, rarely in sight of mixed company.

When Marian found Salima, seated, perhaps, too calmly in a corner of the room, what _she_ saw was enough to stop her in her tracks.

Because they had no mirror to use to dress themselves, it was necessary to have another person present to tend to matters of hairstyle and lacings. As Salima had no reflective surface to tell her how well she had done her job of cleaning up, she had fallen a bit short of a good job.

She had taken down her hair, but had not been able to remove all its tangles. She had no way of knowing that a disturbing bruise was beginning to bloom, quite worrisomely at the base of her neck, which the gown she had picked did little to obscure (the bruise will grow progressively more prominent over the next few days).

Although she had salved them, her lips looked like those of a patient with typhus, or some other deathly illness; blood-spotted, cracked and swollen.

Marian looked at her friend. She stared, as Salima sat quietly, attempting to appear normal, not fully aware of how impossible that was in her present state (then again, she had never had to try this sort of act before: no one else had ever cared).

**Salima:** [meaning to apologize for missing the Christening] I am sorry-

**Marian:** [just now sees it, the oddness of it distracts her] Why is your dress burning in the fire?

**Salima:** My dr-oh, yes, it. I was sick on it.

_Lie._

**Salima:** I could not reach the privy in time.

_Lie._

**Salima:** It cannot be cleaned, I do not think. Burning seemed the best for it.

_Salima stands to turn toward the chamber window, to get her face away from Marian's searching eyes._

Marian is suspicious, of course, familiar with such subterfuge. She is not the Nightwatchman for nothing. Marian reaches out a hand as Salima turns and gently touches her fingertips to the underside of Salima's breast. When she pulls them away they are dotted with blood, as is the kirtle Salima wears.

**Marian:** [her voice catching a little, she is not so dense as to not intuit here] And this, [shows her fingertips] you fell somehow, into something sharp? [wishing it to be true] And were just about to ask for my help with it?

**Salima:** [brows pulls together, this is harder than she had thought it would be, to see her friend so grieved by her own treatment, compassion something Salima has never experienced] The baby, where is he?

**Marian:** [ignores question] You must tell me what has happened here.

**Salima:** You should return to the baby and the Queen. And the party. This is meant to be a happy time.

_She turned and gave a sad smile, like the only smiles she had ever had to give when she and Marian were first thrown together._

**Marian:** [affrighted, growing desperate to suss the truth] If you do not tell me, I will pull your dress from the fire to see for myself if it is soiled. [her eyes threaten tears at seeing the impassiveness in her friend] I will ask you no other question, nor speak on any other topic until you tell me: what has happened?

_Marian grabbed for her friend's hand, caught it in her own for a moment, but saw in Salima's eyes that she was not yet persuaded to speak._

Marian charges toward the fire, grabbing the poker and setting to pull the flaming garment out of it, and dangerously into the room with them. Salima knows Marian well enough to see in her eyes that she is not bluffing, but is fully committed to doing this.

**Salima:** [only speaking in order to stop Marian][all but gagging on the word] Gautier.

**Marian:** [trying to follow] The French Crusader hero, he has...

**Salima:** [head bowed] He has taken what he wished from me.

_Lie._

Marian's face falls, for though she had assumed something along those lines (though she did not know of any possible attacker), it is one thing to entertain far-flung possibilities, and another to have them made horrifically real.

**Marian:** [so herself, of course; to battle!] And so how shall we protect you from him?

**Salima:** You need fear him no further. He will not trouble me again.

_Lie._

**Marian:** [all concern] How can you be sure? You do not think he will seek you out again?

**Salima:** I knew something of him in the Holy Land.

_Lie._

**Salima:** That was his way. He did not bother the same woman twice.

_Lie._

**Salima:** He has taken his pleasure of me.

_Lie._

**Salima:** I shall be a ghost to him now.

_Lie._

There proves enough truth to what Salima says that Marian believes her. Marian's strong desire to make things right, and comfort her friend is such that she is easily sidetracked by tending to Salima's injuries, physical and otherwise. She would have hugged her, a tight reminder of how much she cared for her, but the breast (as we saw), light blood from it staining through the kirtle Salima wore warded her off for the moment. In that, Salima was naught but glad. A kind touch, an embrace, may have been all that was standing between her and going from her present status of cracked into full-on breaking. She had three days to live the rest of her life. Three days before she must return herself to hell, to save Marian and the baby. Three days in which to swallow down the sour feeling she currently tasted in her mouth: the fear that she could not bring herself to do it. That somehow her own will, her own desire, was no longer a doomed slave to that of a fore-ordained, incontrovertible Kismet. Three days to bring herself to heel. To again reconcile herself to this, ever her Fate. She had been acting like an English fool to think she might live to know any other.

* * *

**France - Amiens to Calais Road -** Early, pre-sunrise. A small, well-pitched travelers' camp on the road from the capitol city of Picardy to the North's prominent coastal hub. Two figures sleep back to back, like seasoned warriors in a hostile land. They are well concealed among the underbrush, and though their horses hobbled nearby bear no recognizable livery at the moment, they are usually found under the royal colors of the House Plantagenet.

But scouts (barely higher than spies in status) would do well to conceal any allegiances they might have when sent ahead to make ready the Lionheart's way.

The man wakes first, and turns his front to his companion's back so that he may embrace hi-oh, wait, it is a woman, a small-framed Saracen. In point of fact, his wife.

It seemed extraordinary to Will Scarlet that he was returning to England, and under such circumstances. A treaty, peace, a cessation of Holy War and years of turmoil and death in his adopted country. Ironic, in a way, though, to leave Palestine just as things there began to normalize. No doubt every bit as ironic as to find such happiness, to solidify such mated bliss among the drama and bloodshed of two Octobers past, just as Robin had forever lost his.

Instinctually, Will's arms tightened around D'Jaq, his hand stroked through her short hair (somewhat longer than we last saw it, but still quite short for a woman). _What,_ he wondered, _could Robin need from the Queen's Court in Calais?_ Of course they two had been away so long he could not even kid himself that he would have any insight sufficient to speculate what might, at present, prove of use to the outlaws.

D'Jaq stirred in his arms. He watched her wake, his heart filled with tenderness at the sight of her. She stretched, as always, even after all this time, unaccustomed to waking in fond proximity to another. He waited for her to acquaint herself with her surroundings, her warrior-senses sharper than his would ever be, no matter how many consecutive nights she had passed in comfortable beds.

Her speed at rising called to his mind her polar opposite in the matter, Allan-A-Dale, who somehow managed to spend every night of _his_ life as comfortably as a babe at its mother's breast. No worry, no threat or inconvenient tree root yet existed (it would seem) that could keep the thief extraordinaire from total relaxation and deep slumber. It was a trait of his friend's that he had come to admire in the time he knew him. Admire, and (especially when Will was presented with an especially hard patch of ground) envy.

To say that D'Jaq was a far speedier riser than Allan was an understatement. She bested him, her own husband, at it several times over, fully awake and ready to go at the least notice. Today was no exception. Her mind was already engaged on their task: scouting well ahead of the King's northward traveling party.

She turned over in his embrace to face him, and he kissed her 'good morning'.

**D'Jaq:** [to business] What could Malik-Ric possibly wish for Robin, that is only to be found in this place, Calais?

**Will:** [chewing it over aloud] The King is sometimes subject to sudden whims. Of late he seems more disposed toward the very direct ordering of the lives of his nobles.

**D'Jaq:** As he is no longer ordering them about on the battlefield?

**Will:** Could it be a woman, a Crown-approved consort, as Robin will soon see his title restored?

_D'Jaq gives him a hard, doubtful look._

**Will:** [protests her dismissal] It _has_ been two years.

**D'Jaq:** Ah, is it so easy to get over the woman you love?

**Will:** [sincerely replies, though her question is largely playful] I could not imagine it. [reminisces] I have lived it, when my mother died. I saw it every day in my father's eyes. Even in the smallest of things, the least-significant of moments, he felt it.

**D'Jaq:** And yet, one of us will live to know such a moment, intimately.

**Will:** [his thoughts never far from his friends] As does Robin, now.

**D'Jaq:** [steering them to a happier vein] As you say, it has been two years. We know not what we may find.

**Will:** [half-joking] What, Robin Hood, domesticated, married and having produced the required heir?

**D'Jaq:** [skeptical] I should sooner think Alice Little reconciled with John. [dryly] And Allan, passionately considering monogamy.

**Will:** Well, we shall hope, at least, to find all in Sherwood well and happy.

**D'Jaq:** In Allah's hands, as well and happy as are we.

_She seals her sort-of prayer by kissing his smiling lips, and both wordlessly agree to a little private time before setting out for the morning to further scout ahead for the King._

As they continue their contented nuzzling and foreplay, the camera pulls back until, as it would to anyone traveling along the adjacent roadway, the undergrowth entirely conceals them from us.

* * *

**Philip II's castle - Calais -** An entire day has passed since Salima was given the ultimatum by Gautier. She has not slept, her physical injuries serving only to be the perfect mask for the utter turmoil within her heart.

At table this day, Sir Gautier makes telling eye contact with her (a mere second's glance to the unknowing eye), raising his brows meaningfully and licking the outer corner of his upper lip, before going back to the conversation he was having with Philip, the French king.

That moment's gesture proves too much for her already over-burdened mind. She excuses herself to her chambers, barely able to arrive in time.

Just as that happy, happy day of little Henry's birth she noted that she felt somewhat cracked, as though things were leaking out of her, she feels it even more strongly now. But swept away are the light things, the frothy things she had held down for so long, those things that had floated to the surface that day, those emotions but a fleeting memory now. Here was what was left, the heaviest things, like sludge now bearing their weight down on the split she had experienced, where once (for that time, that short, short time) only light had seeped through, in the crockery of her self. She could not hold them back, could not hold them in. She begins to experience her first panic attack: she shakes, sweats without reason, she cannot get her breath, nor can she stop walking the room. It is too small a space for her, she goes to the window, all her terrorized mind can see is _down_: no sky, no distant landscape, no country beyond this castle, beyond life (or rather, death to what she now knows herself to be) with Gautier.

She loves Marian more than anything else in the world, except, perhaps, baby Henry [at this time she does not yet understand her feelings re: Allan well enough for her mind to even place him on such a list]. She cannot let them be exposed, or placed in danger. She must do what she can, whatever is in her power to do to protect both their secret and their persons from Gautier, and those like him. She thinks of Sir Guy of Gisborne, who has killed Marian twice. She thinks of other enemies of Robin Hood and the Nightwatchman, as related in Tristan and Marian's stories. She thinks of the outrage of those at Court, at both Courts, the possible consequences should Queen Eleanor's clever confidence game using Henry be exposed.

To try to get a better breath to her lungs, with unsteady hands she begins to undo her lacings. Her fingers will not obey her will, and she finds the dagger, Allan's dagger, where she has hidden it and slices them instead.

Marian, again worried about her friend, arrives back from luncheon, carrying Henry. Salima immediately pulls her hand back into her full skirts to hide Allan's blade.

Her face is one of naked turmoil and anguish.

Looking at Marian, she speaks, with her words her composure returning to her momentarily.

**Salima:** I have lied to you.

**Marian:** [trying to talk Salima down, but herself petrified by the scene before her, Salima on the precipice of 'mad woman in the attic' status] Will you not sit on the bed, let me fetch you watered wine? You have exhausted yourself. Here [she continues, trying to take her lead from Gwyn's comforting, chatty behavior], sit and hold Henry for me while I fetch it. [she extends her arms, with the baby in Salima's direction] He is jolly enough today to lighten even the heaviest heart.

_Salima begins to cry, great shoulder-shaking sobs._

It has been so long since she shed tears her eyes may well have forgotten how to send them down her cheeks. Her weeping is not pretty, nor easy to watch, it is a soul-rending act of complete and utter despair. "I cannot touch him," her voice shakes and she repeats the words, which are almost too overcome by sobs to understand. "I cannot touch him." Her wrist brings the dagger up, in sight, its point warding away anyone who might come close. She shouts. "Do not ask me to touch him!"

Marian quickly stows Henry well in the center of the bed behind her, keeping herself between him and Salima's blade.

"Someone once told me," she referenced Carter without saying his name, "that I did not yet know my worth. Perhaps I know something of worth now, but I am wrong to feel so, to wish to chose my own worth over yours. Over Henry's! I cannot go back to him." She seems to recall the dagger in her hand for the first time. "In one more day," she vows to Marian, the thought only just fully formed in her head, "someone will die by this blade. I do not wish it to be me, but I find myself of a sudden most willing to take such a chance, if only to feel the sun again, and not this cold, dark loneliness of my fate." She finds the scabbard and re-sheaths the dagger, not giving it up, though Marian might feel a bit happier having care of it in such a charged moment.

Salima's action, and her declaration have returned a calmness to her.

**Salima:** As I say, I have lied to you.

**Marian:** [seeing Salima wishes to come clean] Go on.

**Salima:** Gautier did not rape me in the corridor.

_Marian took a step closer to her._

**Salima:** He did inform me that I had three days to return to him under my own power, or he will expose you, and compromise your position and safety here.

**Marian:** Return to him?

**Salima:** In the Holy Land, at Richard's camp, I was, he was...[searches for a word fit for Marian's ears] he used me as his whore, his camp servant, his whipping post. There is no way to be a ghost to him, as I lied before. Once he took me, he had no appetite for any other. He will not stop in his pursuit of me, so he has told me. He will bleed and butcher me, and destroy you if I do not return to him. [she reaches very slowly, with great regret, to lift her skirts and show Marian the rise of her left hip, the initials scarred there] He says he owns me.

_Marian is now close enough to swallow down a gasp at the sight of the perverted monogram, and take the skirt length from Salima's hand, letting it drop and cover the marking again._

**Salima:** I will kill him rather than submit to his plans for me. [her voice is stronger, more herself] I need not seal this vow with blood. I swear this to you on the blood he made flow two days hence, in the Queen's corridor.

**Marian:** But you will go to him?

**Salima:** I will do what I must to protect you, and your secret.

**Marian: **Though to do what he says is to defy the King, who has put me under your direct charge? And to deny your own heart?

**Salima: **I will do what I must to protect you, and your secret.

**Marian: **[calling back to an earlier discussion of theirs] How can you change what a landholding Crusader knight does? Or may do?

**Salima:** I am sorry, so sorry. I do not think I can endure what he demands. Perhaps if I had not met you, not passed these last months with you. Had I not lived to know such happiness, then, I could have done it.

**Marian:** [trying to talk Salima to a certain revelation, here, and using a very similar tactic to what Salima, perhaps, used with Robin at his first parting with near-dead Marian in #9, "Fate or Free Will?": to distract one's intellect and help someone through a difficult moment] So you chose to break with your Fate, and exercise your Free Will; killing him, or dying yourself?

**Salima:** Free Will, does it not only signify a life of regret? Of infinite hindsight? If everything in life is a choice then you say that I have chosen my path, made my own destiny. Why would I have chosen this? Why would you deny that this has, rather, chosen me?

**Marian:** No, not a life of regret, but of responsibility. Everyone has a moment, a coming in to the majority of choice, like moving from child, where things happen to you well beyond your control, to adult, where you may chose how to respond and even shape such things.

**Salima:** And yet you see this as not a godless world without Kismet?

**Marian:** Godless? No. Accountable. One cannot, for example, hope to overthrow the Sheriff of Nottingham if he is fated to rule you. When Robin was young, he hated promises. He believed he had no control over the world and his own life and responsibilities, no authority to makes promises. As he grew he changed, he began to make his own choices and therefore could affect the world around him. Crusade gave this to him. You cannot impact the world without believing in Free Will. I do not believe we can defeat Sir Gautier without believing in it, either.

**Salima:** We?

**Marian:** [her arms now around Salima] I will not have you leave us for another, and I will never stand to see you at the mercy of any man less kind than Robin himself. For all his titles and land and fancy habiliments, Gautier has proven himself both a pig and a butcher. If we could but meet him in fair combat, we would punish him fourfold for his transgressions.

**Salima: **You say he is too well-known and powerful a man to kill, much less bring down?

**Marian: **I say, that while I do not think such a man exists (too powerful and well-known to punish and expose), the logistics of ridding ourselves of Sir Gautier within the castle, and our going undetected with only a single day to plan such a venture, are not encouraging.

_Henry wails, feeling too lonely in his place on the bed._

**Marian:** But, [echoing Robin] I have a plan.

**Salima:** A plan?

**Marian:** Well, half a plan.

_She deposits Henry into Salima's arms, the tears still not quite dry on her friend's anguished face._

* * *

It becomes apparent they must find a way to leave Court, straight away, and without the Queen's help, as she will have no wish to part with baby Henry, at any cost.

To prevent Gautier (or curious others) from following them they must also keep their hastily-made plans utterly secret.

The task ahead gives Marian renewed respect for the ragtag Sherwood outlaws, as in this instance she has little to plan with; little time and few supplies, and much, quite much, to plan for.

* * *

While packing (lightly, as they must) in preparation to run, Marian asks Salima if she can use a sword.

**Salima:** [taken aback at the suggestion] No. I doubt one woman among the entire castle could.

**Marian:** That is an unfortunate circumstance I shall set to remedying upon our exit of the castle, still, it would have been a helpful thing to depend upon out of the gate. Not that we have much to defend, are we to be set upon by bandits.

**Salima:** [matter-of-factly] There is the King's gold.

**Marian:** [going along with what she thinks is a joke] The King's gold. Certainly. Let us not forget to pack that.

_Salima produces, from some hidden spot, a leather satchel about the size of large grapefruit. Marian takes it, and turns it over on the bed. Heavy gold coins spill out, all bearing the Lionheart's own crest. More than twenty in all, it is a considerable fortune, well more than most noble girls' dowries._

**Marian:** [impressed to near-speechlessness] The King's gold.

**Salima:** 'Twas given to me by His Majesty prior to our departure of the Holy Land, for your keeping.

**Marian: **[incredulous] There was more?

**Salima:** Only several coins more. I left some with the Mother Abbess, for our, and your lord's, stay there. Some went to buy our passage to Aquitaine. Since we have arrived here, there has been no need to incur expense, as all has been provided for us.

**Marian:** [joking, though she knows not when she will see him again] Beware the moment Robin spies this. He will have it all for the general fund!

_Salima, who does not entirely understand the great value of the coins, smiles to be companionable in reply._

**Marian:** [still laughing, not having known what rich women they are] Anyway, I can rest assured now we shall have whatever funds we need for our coming journey.

* * *

Marian has decided (to use appropriate gambling terminology) 'to call in the marker' of Season Twos Count "Booby"; Count Freidrich Bertrand Otto von Wittelsbach of the German Duchy of Bavaria (see #35, "The Nature of Love and a Good Brisket"). As per his generous proposal at that time, if she and Salima can get themselves and the baby to Bavaria, he will gladly shelter them in secrecy indefinitely. With no one else to turn to, Marian decides they will throw themselves (and their secret) on his merciful offer.

They cannot, after all, make for Sherwood, their secrets so dangerously near discovery and disclosure by Gautier. Were she alone, no doubt Marian would attempt just such a run, but in her time away and in her convalescing, she has become more seasoned as an adult, less given to acts of hot-blood and little consideration. And she knows that now is when her actions must not be motivated for herself alone, but rather to protect those she loves: Salima and her child (and, in its way, Robin, for though she will not admit it, as his wife and mother to his child, she is become to his enemies his most obvious Achilles' heel). She is, in this deciding against self-desire, against her heart's first instinct, at her most heroic.

* * *

Upon their midnight escape, there is a final, unexpected encounter with the Queen, who catches them out.

**SCENE:** A dark passageway, late. Marian and Salima are discovered. There is no other possible explanation for what they are doing up and about, with the baby, and what baggage they may carry between the two of them but that of imminent flight from Court. Marian has even gladly forsaken the usual Courtly dress of the Lady Matilda for a pair of trousers she coerced Salima to smuggle from out of the castle laundry.

At the sight of them, the Queen looks both surprised, and hurt. It is unclear what she, herself is doing prowling the castle corridors into the wee hours alone; insomnia? Hyper vigilance over her own safety? Mayhap a lover's tryst?

In this encounter, she is very much the contradictory Eleanor, vacillating from imperious monarch to good-natured broad that we met in "Treasure of the Nation".

"Your Highness," offers Marian, stammering her way to an explanation.

It is a tight space, this narrow passageway, perhaps less than five feet wide (like the hallway of a small, modern home), and little used, which is why it was picked by them to ensure the secrecy of their flight. This makes it hard for Eleanor to see them both simultaneously. Marian, torch in hand, is in front of Salima (who holds the baby), and therefore bears the brunt of the Queen's attention.

"I know, Lady Marian," the Queen addressed her for the first time by her name, a sadness entering her face, "I know Henry is not-mine." She smiled, almost apologetically. "But it was nice for an old woman to pretend. Nice to imagine a grandson, a child of my Richards, heir to the throne. A moment of security...of hope among-" her eyes took in the castle, and it seemed, the nations about her, "this. All this." She cast a wily glance back sideways to Marian. "It is good that you fear me Marian, for all that I have been nothing but kindness and accommodation to you. I like that. But Im not going to stop you. Or take your child...though I could. Do not tell me where you are going. It is best I should not know." She laughed a little to herself, already speculating on how the situation would play out politically. "They will think I have secreted you and Richard's boy away somewhere. They will think it all my doing. But I shall have had no part of it. I shall instead pray for you and your safety tomorrow at prayers, but know: I will not prevent a search party being sent, if only a meddlesome one made up of idle Court gossips."

Eleanor moved past Marian down the hall to where Salima stood, and as was her way, to ping-pong between many moods in even the same speech, she produced something as she did from time to time (though never when one expected it); a moment of piercing insight.

She touched Salimas face, "Was it so bad for you here, Child? You smile so little, I confess it is hard to tell. But we understand each other, do we not? You and I. For the lots we have drawn are not so starkly different, are they? Our freedom from men, harshly won, yes?" She compared her own experiences in life with those of the bi-racial woman standing before her. "Sold to men, imprisoned, mis-used, yet still somehow seen as a prize, a valued possession." She sighed and shook her head at the ridiculousness of the notion, that she (or Salima) could be possessed. Then she seemed to settle on what wisdom she wished to impart. "Coeur-de-Lion's Sultana, I will tell you this; as we go through life we harden, parts of us die. You yourself, I think have had more than your share of hardening experiences. But, beware! Do not make your path as I have made mine before you. For hardness of the soul tempts Providence, and like as not It will break you when you refuse to bend."

Again, the sadness of the world came into her eyes. "I challenge you this," and she placed a blessing kiss on the forehead of both child and nurse, "grow ever softer, your heart ever easier to be touched as you grow older. Make up some for the hard oak mine has long been tempered into. Live and care for the world so that when you are as old as I (older, even) the smallest trouble, the slightest scrape to the knee of a child," she rested her hand on Henry's head, "or silliest fear might yet touch you, cause you to care. I think, having lived so opposite that, it must be the only way, the only path to happiness."

She stepped past Salima, now half-hidden in the passageway's darkness, and half out of the circle of the torchlight. "The world is about to bend and change," Eleanor referenced Richard's imminent return without revealing to them his secret coming, "to be re-made in the image of a king, as it is from time to time." It was this knowledge that perhaps gave her cause for little worry at their flight from Court. They would hear of her son's landing in England soon enough. "As for you, Mrs. Hood, should you find your way back to my Court, your place here, as was your mother's," (it is her first reference to Marian's mother), "you will find, happily, waiting for you. Do not let it be said Eleanor, granddaughter of Guilhem IX of Aquitaine holds a grudge." At that she smiled mischievously, and in a great sweep of skirts, was gone.

* * *

It is a narrow escape for all involved, including stowaway Tristan, the page, hidden among the sleeping stable boys in the night, from there following the small party of Marian, Salima and the baby at a distance.

As we see Tristan rise from the stable floor where he had been faking sleep, and quickly saddle a horse (rather, steal a horse) in order to pursue them, in a dark portent, as Tristan walks his fresh mount out of the stables, the eye of another stable boy snaps open, one who has also been faking sleep.

With Tristan gone, this boy hurriedly outfits a second horse, an impressive warhorse, in the colors we have come to recognize as belonging to the House of Laurent-Thibault. Once the horse is ready (and this boy is good at what he does, he does not take much time), the boy himself sets off like lightning to find his rider, the knight Sir Gautier, and to tell him, indeed, as he had suspected, the chase is on.

We end on a four-way divided screen (the screen in vertical strips) to remind us of all now on the road: far left, Robin and Co. disembarking (their moods quite jolly) dockside in Calais, perhaps a familiar 'working girl' or two winking in recognition of Allan and his previous business with them, Much disgusted with Allan for getting such attentions, Robin nudging Allan in the shoulder with a raised eyebrow of camaraderie; Will and D'Jaq on horseback, scouting the Amiens to Calais road; Marian and Salima, also mounted, headed south and west to Bavarian Germany with baby Henry; and finally, far right, King Richard, He and His growing entourage of newly recruited soldiers moving slowly, as armies of foot soldiers do, but still moving ever northward, and home, to England.

End of Season Three, Episode 12, "Fight or Flight"

**...TBConcluded...in...Episode 13, Robin Hood: the Series Finale**


	53. At the end, the beginning

So, it's the final episode of Robin Hood. The fat lady is, in essence, singing. In the last week you've struggled to track down all five variant commemorative covers of TV Guide, including the one sent only to subscribers (a saucy one of Jonas and Lucy dressed in modern attire, but still in character and in a fairly torrid clench).

[The other covers (sold in stores and at newsstands-wait, do 'newsstands' still exist?) are as follows:  
Cover 1) Jonas and Lucy as Robin and Marian, amusingly rendered as 1950s husband and wife. He is at the table drinking his morning coffee and reading the paper ('The Nottingham Bugle'), she is at the retro stove, cooking eggs-but though they are doing these tasks they are in their Middle Ages costumes, and each has their weapons at the ready as though his bow and quiver were his briefcase and trench coat (laying beside him on the table), her sword propped at the wall like a vacuum, and Nightwatchman's mask handing up like a pot holder over the stove;  
Cover 2) The Sheriff and Clem shown in modern-day black suits in attendance as mourners/pallbearers at Gisborne's funeral (Gisborne also suited up, looking quite good, actually, laid out in his coffin holding a white lily. One of his eyes may, in fact, be winking.), Wad is at the coffin's head in an ecclesiastical collar, as though the presiding vicar;  
Cover 3) Much, Little John, new recruit Michel, and all the Scarlets (Will, Luke, D'Jaq and Aislinn) in Sherwood, though looking far cleaner than they ever do on the actual show, depicted as the seven dwarves to Queen Eleanor's Snow White (Michel as Bashful, Little John as Grumpy, Will as Happy, D'Jaq as Doc, and of course, Much pouting as he has been labeled 'Dopey';  
Cover 4) and the hard-to-find (because there weren't many printed) cover (the art direction of the image has it looking quite a bit like a Greek Orthodox Icon) showing Salima, almost expressionless (as those on icons are often primitively depicted) in a throne-like chair, King Richard behind her, Carter to her left in his Templar outfit, his sword out, but point to the floor, Allan to her right (looking a bit outclassed by the others to be honest, like he's not quite sure why he's there, too, but with that 'whatever, I'll roll with it' expression he has), and Sir Gautier on his knees (but menacingly) at her feet, somewhat turned toward her.]

You've gone and downloaded the finale's to-be-showcased single, "Before the Night Is Over", originally by Gaelic Storm, tonight to be performed by the gifted actress/musician playing Aislinn Scarlet. You've listened to it, learned it, and burned it. [No joke, seriously. This Gaelic Storm song deserves a download and a listen (just reading the lyrics alone later on will not do it justice). And it _will_ play into this episode. It was actually rather central to my formulating of it.]

And now you've planted yourself into your couch/futon/La-Z-Boy/California King bed with the necessary accessories: tissues, remotes, muted cell phones, Chapstick (you have no plans of getting up, whatever the emergency), personally autographed piccy of Sam Troughton, cocktail napkin that Lucy Griffiths is said to have touched that you bought off eBay, and a giant bowl of homemade cookie dough (you pick the kind), with a side of salt and vinegar chips (crisps, if you'd prefer), and a two liter of Cheerwine. Because sadness always makes you want to eat. And then again, so does happiness. And tonight you feel a bit of both.

You're watching in real time, but, of course, totally TiVo-ing it as well, and you have told your roommate that if she chooses to join you there will be NO pausing or instant replays on this viewing. You can indulge yourself in that on subsequent views, as it's only eight o'clock and you plan on watching this at least three times straight through before work tomorrow.

First off, your Channel Guide tells you this is going to be a two-hour special, and it will be introduced live by Jonas and Lucy & Co. who are hosting an exclusive premiere/viewing party somewhere terribly hip in London that you totally did not buy enough Whoppers at Burger King to win an invitation to. Because you are never that lucky...or that hungry for an entire Whopper.

You settle in, the moments count down. (They're actually showing a countdown clock in the corner of your television throughout _Access Hollywood_. No, I do not know what channel you are watching this on.) The landline rings. _AH!_ It's that really cute guy you met the other day. But because three seasons of watching the Sheriff of Nottingham has shown you how to be cruel, you send him to voice mail. You have passed the test, you are ready. It is time.

* * *

The first hour is comprised chiefly of a review of the prior seasons (20 minutes or so spent on each-oh, right, both hours will also be presented entirely commercial-free, sponsored by, I dunno-somebody who really has a lot of money and cares about the poor, so, okay, "unnamed fictional corporation").

The clips review, however, is just shown, allowed to stand on its own, it's not narrated or tackily done (as I've seen them before). Highlander: The Series' last fifteen minutes or so sort of did this (at the very end before the credits rolled), and if I think about it long enough I will probably cry right here and now and short out my keyboard, so, just saying, something like that...

_Previously on Robin Hood_ [this is voiced by Michael Elwyn. Because I want it to be.]...an utterly, heart-renderingly awesome encapsulation of the series to date is shown. Some of the bits are incredibly familiar (the 'People of Nottingham' speech from "Will You Tolerate This?", for one), others are less often lauded, but no less fabulous.

This is an exceptional compilation of previouslies that takes several shots from each episode, and multiple ones from flashbacks [everything is shown in proper timeline order, so pre-series flashback clips are shown prior to clips that happened in the series' timeline. (i.e. the May Faire clip of S3 Ep11 would be shown before the 'Saracen' raid trying to kill the King clip of S2 Ep8, without respect to which episodes in which they were shown as flashbacks]. It is, in essence, the '55-minute Robin Hood' (The gang's live intro takes about 5 minutes). We're not afraid to take our time. This is the series finale, after all, and so what if the previouslies go on and on and on? At which point we have the original opener (the same as Season One). And I know you've all seen it, but let's just take a moment and go over it in our heads just one more time, like slowly tasting a great wine (assuming we are all aware of the intricacies of woodsy taste and musky bouquets and such-which this author is not).

After these 'previously on's, as we go into the second hour, our episode begins with a scene never shown or referenced in the series.

As Gordon Kennedy says (we return briefly to the live feed for an introduction of the episode), and has been said here before; "As we get to the end, we return to the beginning." He waits a beat (as is his way). "That said," his expression is characteristically sardonic, "I do not appear at all in said scene."

* * *

Episode 13, "Gaudeamus igitur" (which is Latin and means 'Let us then make merry')

**SCENE:** Familiar SFX arrow, with text showing us we are at Knighton Hall, and the year is 1180. Robin is 12 and Marian 10. Much, recently given to Robin in service and still learning his way, is but nine.

During this time, Edward of Knighton is Sheriff of Nottingham, and is rarely at his Hall. Due to this, Knighton Hall and grounds have the feel of an anything-goes summer camp, as the mice (his children) play while the cat (their father) is away. Away, and far too consumed with his own position and responsibilities to worry or often even inquire about the well being of his offspring, particularly his troublesome (to him) nineteen-year-old second son, Clem (now heir, as firstborn Edrick is dead to the wars).

Their lives Edward has entrusted to servants he values and depends upon, and when he wishes to see them he does, and when the time will come that they might prove useful to him and his schemes, particularly Marian (though, as a ten-year-old, not on the whole useful except in theory), he will have them sent for.

Marian and Clem, a family of two: young nobles, ungoverned, with an entire complement of servants, and a village in thrall to them.

It is full summer (and has been a wet one), which makes, Marian thinks, falling off horses so much easier to do. And she is certainly doing her share of it today, as Clem has taken her out to show her some basics of trick riding. Just now they have been practicing her standing behind him, knees bent, hands on his shoulders as he rides in the saddle. When he gives the word, she straightens her knees and attempts to fully stand, daring to remove both her hands before the (seemingly inevitable) tumble.

Her clothes show the diligence of their practice, as she has fallen repeatedly (and yet, still happily) onto the soft summer ground, but frequently failed to miss the numerous mud puddles afflicting the paddock nearest the Hall. If one did not know her already one might think her a terribly freckled child, but it is only the mud splatters flecking on her face from her many falls. Her clothing is bare bones (a light shift only), and that made of plainest homespun. She goes without shoes.

At ten she is sturdy-built, her face and body chubby in a way that time will slim and lengthen (though there is no sign of that coming on yet). The apples of her plump cheeks almost threaten to overcome her eyes when she smiles, which is more often than not. Her hair has not much lost the tightness of the curls she was born with (by Gwyn's account in #26, "Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch"), which in her current state makes it all but impossible to tame. In short, she is a little hoyden, and never happier.

But the twelve-year-old boy, Robin, standing by the side of the barn just enough in the shadow to be concealed from them, is not looking at the little girl, his closest noble neighbor. It is her brother who has caught his wistful eye.

"Master Robin," asked young Much, _his_ eye showing some level of distaste for the wild-looking girl on the horse. "Are we not to call on the Hall, this day? Is that not why we walked the distance here from Locksley?" (Only steps outside of Locksley and the new servant seemed to break out into a sweat of fear that they had traveled too far to ever to hope to return, but he was young. He was untried and untraveled. "You will have the educating of him," Robin's father, the Earl, had said. "It is for you to clear his mind of village superstition, and coarse manners. It is for you to show him what it is to be a man. Your man. See that you do not take such a task lightly. Much is a person, not a horse. What he wants is shaping. Not breaking.")

Robin sighed, gave a quick look behind to his ever-questioning attendant, his tone turning impatient. "In a minute, Much." He looked out from this perfect hiding place, where he did spy-on Clem of Knighton. With absolute stars in his eyes, Robin beheld the young man, the fine way he sat a horse, the fact that at only nineteen he lived, mostly, on his own; made his own choices, the Earl said, more or less managing his father's entire estate. And was an absolute wizard with a sword.

Robin had held his place, hidden here, in the hopes Clem might cease the undignified games with his little sister Marian and instead decide to practice with his sword on the thick pole erected in their side yard for just such work. So that Robin might watch. And, learn.

But he saw it was too late. From her high position on the horse's back, Marian's sharp eyes caught him out.

"Ho! There!" she alerted her brother, and in a flurry of hooves quite soon the pair were beside them. Miraculously, Marian had not fallen this time, never having taken her eyes off Robin once she caught sight of him. She leaned over into Clem's neck, circling it from behind with her little girl arms, and gave him a kiss.

Over his shoulder, Robin heard Much announce, "yick".

Clem did not seem to mind. "Greetings, young neighbor," he said, giving Marian the help of a long arm to slide down and off the horse. He smiled.

In that moment Robin would have given his own bow, his most treasured of all his few personal possessions, to have had such a brother.

Before Robin could reply, Marian challenged Much with a, "who are you?"

"I-I-I-I-," Much stammered.

"This is Much. He is to be my man." Robin did not say it with any particular pride. Though he would have liked a brother like Clem, he also would have liked to be free of this younger boy recently condemned to follow him everywhere. He would have liked to be allowed to be alone.

"Welcome to Knighton, Much," Clem cordially acknowledged him.

"Clem is to be a knight," Marian offered, and if she'd had buttons she would have burst them. Though the news had already reached Locksley, Robin still felt a tremendous wave of excitement and pride upon again hearing it.

"I," he began, like a boy asking a girl for the first time to dance, "I, would you shoot, today, Clem?"

Clem eyed the young boy's bow, any more, ever-present, slung across his back.

"I would, Robin, but I must excuse myself just now. My, er," he reached for the word, "time is required elsewhere."

It was a strange statement to Robin, as so little seemed to be required of the Knighton siblings in those days.

When Clem had taken his leave of them and cantered his mount back to the house, Marian informed them, "Clem has been contracted with Gareth of Granville's daughter, Juley. She is to come today so that he might entertain her, and show her the Hall and village."

_Ah_. This news had not yet found its way to Locksley Manor, though Robin did not doubt his father, the Earl, was already well-apprised of it.

Robin heard the boy Much swallow loudly behind him, and was coming to understand that this was the sound the boy made when he was attempting not to interject where he, in fact, should not, interrupting one of his betters. Truthfully, Robin's nerves would have better tolerated the inappropriate interjection than the noise of this queer, throaty gulping.

"Well, I shall shoot with you, then," offered Marian, playing at hostess, and as any offer of a partner was better than none, and as perhaps if he killed enough time Clem would again re-appear to join them, Robin consented and produced his bow, as Marian ran to a nearby shed and fetched out Clem's.

She looked ridiculous carrying it, the bow easily five inches taller than was she. Robin still shot with a bow from last year, his own height at twelve having outpaced it, gaining in the last fourteen-month nearly a full foot. The bow, though cherished, now barely came to his hip. But he would shoot with no other until he gained skill enough to cut and temper his own.

Recently he had set his mind to fletching, every spare moment of his day spent retrieving the best materials for arrow making, testing and re-testing certain feathers, certain fletchings and arrow tips until, like an accomplished chef he felt his designs had reached a perfection.

Today he brought with him what he felt was his shining example of that perfection. He had hoped to let it fly for Clem, to impress his neighbor with his archer's ability.

Marian finished dragging Clem's oversized bow to where he and Much stood, just at the edge of the King's forest, Sherwood (which grows near the Hall on several sides). Far closer than it is to Locksley Village and Manor. At the right time of day, the trees' shadow actually shades the Hall.

There was a sort of divot here, cut into the ground, and she wedged the bow's lower point there (it was obviously not the first time she had made use of it so).

"What's this?" she asked. As quickly as her eyes lit on the special arrow in Robin's quiver, it was in her hand before he could quite protest.

"Oi!" He tried to reach for it back.

In her defense of her new prize, Marian dissolved into slippery elbows and knees; there was nowhere to find a handhold. His grasping fist came back to him full of nothing but three wisps of curling black hair and half an acorn.

It should not be so hard to take something from a ten-year-old girl, after all. But as he again grabbed for it he found himself loathe to perhaps injure it, his finest work to-date.

"Stand ready to fetch it back, Much," he instructed the other boy, whose face was registering shock at the lack of civilized manners the girl displayed.

Marian wrapped half her foot and great toe around the base of the large bow in a weirdly free-form motion, her arms hardly seeming long enough to stretch apart the necessary length to let the arrow fly; rather, more likely to have it plop instantly to the ground.

"Where shall I sink it for you?" she asked, confidently. "Clem usually calls that fencepost two from the corner as target."

Said post certainly stood witness to her speaking truth: it was over-marked with pocks of all depths.

"Very well, then," Robin agreed, hoping to get this over quickly, and re-secure his prized arrow, "there."

Ten-year-old Marian pulled the bowstring taut, her form far from natural-looking, and she might have succeeded if the mud had not also, in this instance, betrayed her. The divot gave way, the longbow broke loose from its position, and the arrow flew askew.

It flew far, high, and fast. It was everything Robin had known it could be. It was quite possibly the best arrow fletched in all Nottinghamshire that summer. In the entire Kingdom (including, he thought, France). Watching the grey goose shaft fly free his soul jumped without coming back down. It soared. His mind teased him that he could feel the same wind upon his face the arrow's point cut its way through. He was exultant.

And then, Much said, "I say, that's a rum lot. It's gone off into the King's forest."

And so it had, deep, deep into the forbidden wilderness of Sherwood and its layer upon layer of impenetrable greens. There was no easy way telling where it had landed itself.

The three children shared looks with each other, Marian's somewhat chastened at the arrow's loss. No one went into Sherwood, save poachers and thieves. It was rare, even, for their own noble fathers to assay its neglected, rain-rutted roads for the purpose of travel-even when doing so might halve a journey's length. Much knew plentiful village stories of the dangers and the capricious faeries found in the Wood. Robin and Marian knew that whatever they did, the forest was to be avoided at all costs.

But Robin also knew that his now-dead lady mother had come from Tuxford, the market town on the other side of Sherwood, which meant that, unlike tales he had been told to spook and keep him away, it was not, in point of fact, the last forest before the edge of the world.

And Marian knew that, upon the word of her own father, King Henry, Himself, had not once hunted in this, His wood, nor visited it in over twenty years. So she knew there was no vengeful king at present standing guard to be feared.

"I want my arrow back," said Robin, his eyes catching Marian's, and sparking at a similar challenge he saw rising in hers.

"Oh, do not ask me to do this, Master," Much pleaded. "Your father, oh, do not..."

It would be hard to say who made the first move for the leafy underbrush, the nine-year-old girl with the chubby legs covered in an abundance of mud, or the slip of a twelve-year-old boy intent on recapturing his (to that moment's) life's work. But both would recall, as they heard Much stumbling wretchedly after them, too afraid to disobey or be left alone behind, that it was Marian who won the dash, Marian whose hand first pulled aside the green boughs, and Marian who first initiated them into this, the New World.

**...TBC...**


	54. Three, Four, Six, no, Seven for the Road

The previous shot from the flashback of child Marian's hand (as though seen through her eyes, making viewers feel as if their own hand is the one finding a path) neatly transitions into what is more or less the same shot, this time among French trees, (as the text at the bottom of the screen shows us) though, and Marian's hand is now that of the woman, fully grown.

In a bit of a nod to S2 Ep4 "The Angel of Death"'s opener with the intense forest camouflage, Marian walks about the forest, her eyes searching its floor until she locates a well-concealing blanket cleverly fashioned of leaves, under which (when she pulls it aside) we see Salima asleep with Henry.

As they are on the run, they have had to hide even as they rest, tying the horses a safe distance away.

Several days have passed since they left the Court. They do not know of a certain whether they are being followed (though of course we as viewers, do).

**Marian:** [speaking to Salima] My lady, I must ask you to wake, as I have brought you breakfast, Salima. A large rabbit caught amongst my set snares last night. Though I shudder to wonder _how_ we shall roast it.

_The camera shot moves to reveal her left hand, held high as though she dangles a coney by its hind legs. However, it is not a hare she has in hand, but the cape of young Tristan, the page, causing him to stand uncomfortably on tiptoe._

**Salima:** [too dismayed to attempt to continue Marian's witty jesting] This is not good news. [to Tristan] Certainly I cannot lie and say it is good to see you, young Master. You are attached to the Queen's Court, at the bequest of your noble father. It is not for you to decide when to leave.

**Marian:** [too happy to be out and about to truly scold] Yes, I think it best you tell us immediately what nature of the Crown's business you follow us on.

_Marian is masking as a lord, currently, her disguise perfection, down to the trousers. All that she lacks to complete it (and which she hopes to see Richard's coin soon make up for) is a sword._

**Tristan:** [knowing he has no good answer, and knowing that to some, no answer is better than answering falsely] My lady, you ride well enough, but not if one sees your face. Or, forgive me, [casts his eyes down and away in shame] your backside.

**Salima:** [sharing a look with Marian] He speaks true.

**Tristan:** [If he had not followed Marian (whom he would follow to the ends of the earth), he would have followed his new-found friend Salima, whose troubles he now knows better than even Marian herself][boldly] I will not return to Court without you. I follow to serve, as any knight-for so you style yourself, my lady-must have a squire. I may prove useful; allowing you to hide your face when we come to inns on your journeying. I can arrange all, while the Lady Salima will be taken for Henry's nurse, and you his father, so long as you shield yourself under the hood of your long cloak, and do not speak in public to be heard.

**Marian: **[considering his offer because he is right, and because she will take on any option currently open to her] Do you know why we run?

**Tristan:** [the name tries to stick in his throat, but he spits it out] Laurent-Thibault.

**Marian:** True. He is the impetus for such immediacy. But I tell you now, Tristan, there is more here than I may share at this time. But, when the time comes that all is told, I speak this now that you will not think you have been lied to, or wrongly used by us: we, are outlaws, of a kind. Salima's name is her own, mine, I have but borrowed for a time.

**Tristan:** [perplexed, worried, even] You do not serve the Lionheart?

**Salima: **[reassuringly] We serve the Lionheart with all faithfulness. It is the King's own enemies who outlaw us, who wish us ill.

**Tristan:** [light bulb goes on] Then _you_ are Robin Hood!

_Taken off guard, Marian choke-coughs a little, then splutters. (Much would be proud.)_

**Marian:** What?

_Salima sighs, following the young boy's mind more quickly than Marian._

**Tristan:** [in his element] It is in the most recent tale: those who do the work of Robin Hood, who follow the King, who aid the needy and downtrodden, who fight against injustice: _they_ are Robin Hood.

**Salima:** [taking a moment to humorously play devil's advocate with him-and devil Marian a bit] So then, Robin Hood is, after all, merely a philosophical precept? Not a real person, no man of flesh and blood?

**Tristan:** [entirely ignoring her attempt to bait him][to Marian] If you are not Matilda-shall I still call you that?-then who is Henry? Is he instead John or Stephen or Colin? Is he even, as it is rumored, the Lionheart's son?

**Marian:** [honestly, with a moment of sorrow] I am not permitted to speak on his father. [for the first time since the news of the Christening speaking on the matter of her child's name] But Henry is, Henry.

_Salima's face shows a mild surprise._

**Marian:** [goes on] Henry, Edward, Na'if, Robert, Yeoman...[swallows back the next part, which she may not say aloud in front of Tristan; "of Locksley"]

**Salima:** [true surprise, almost wistful] Na'if was the name of my mother's brother. [from #13, "Carter's Woman]

**Marian:** [smiling at the present she knows she has given Salima] As I well remember. As he tried, as much as was in his limited power to protect you, I thought to...honor him, and you, thus.

_There is a moment between the two of them that seems like it may blossom into tears until Tristan interrupts._

**Tristan:** [trying to understand] Very well, but is his name Henry or Edward or...what shall he be called?

**Salima: **[knowledgeable of this, as the King himself is a poet, and in His convalescence penned more than one verse He shared with her] In poetry 'tis known as an acrostic, the first letter of each also making a word: H for Henry, E for Edward, and so forth. [turning to Marian] But why Yeoman? Why make a proper name out of the designation given a common farmer?

**Marian: **[has moved to caress her son's baby-fine hair as he sleeps in Salima's arms] That he will never forget the people, nor stint in his fair treatment of them, nor in their defense when ill-treatment is practiced upon them.

**Tristan: **[now actively trying to puzzle out the mystery] So his father is a landed nobleman. A knight? A baron?

**Salima: **[adding confusion to the pot] Ah, but is he French, or English, or Angevin? And if English, Norman or Saxon? Perhaps, even a northern barbarian-what are they called, Lady?

**Marian:** Scotsmen?

_Salima shakes her head to Tristan as though, 'nice try, hot stuff, come back when you've got it better figured out'._

And so Tristan joins with their party, earning a 'bright boy!' from Marian when he produces a stolen sword from the saddle scabbard on his stolen mount.

Because of his addition to their group, Marian must of necessity yet remain 'Lady Matilda', though in reaching Bavaria she hopes to chose a new moniker.

The road ahead of them is long (south by way of Paris, west into Germany and toward Munich). It is possible, they hope, when they are nearer the border that Marian might have the opportunity to contact Count Freidrich by messenger (hoping that he is nestled on his estate rather than gadding about in search of games of chance as seems to be his wont), and that he might send help to them to speed the end of their journey.

* * *

**SCENE: **In their scouting, Will and D'Jaq have come upon a party of interest, traveling in the opposite direction, but along the same road they are. A knight, incognito, his horse and its trappings bearing no distinction, travels with his squire and, of all things, a Saracen woman with a child.

A knight who has been paying for his keep with gold coins carrying Richard's own seal. Both Will and D'Jaq smell something wrong afoot. They were told of no other scouts or minions of Richard's along this path. This is Philip's domain. He and Richard are not, at present, on the best of terms. Spilling Richard's gold in such a climate seems to mean only one of two things: ignorance (born of a perhaps-desperate necessity) on the part of the unknown knight, or theft (in that he has somehow stolen the money and cares not how he uses it). Passing around Couer-de-Lion's coin might (ironically, correctly) too-soon alert Philip and those of his barons that Richard is in-country and is coming, allowing them to mobilize before the King's proper arrival (at which time His growing army would be able to easily deter any comers not well-meaning).

It has been decided, as they stand just outside of the camp's circle, hidden by the undergrowth, that D'Jaq will attempt to go in and learn what she can from the Saracen woman while the knight and squire are elsewhere.

Finally, the moment has arrived when the nurse and child appear alone.

D'Jaq steps into the clearing, her hood obscuring her face, her cape disguising her body. She has her short sword lifted, but only as a cautionary defensive maneuver, should the knight unexpectedly return.

Will watches on from his place among the trees, looking for the return of the man or boy, and ready to come to his wife's aid should he be needed.

D'Jaq advances on the Saracen nurse, whose back is to her.

_Ah, it is too late._ Will sees the knight striding across the camp: he has returned, though without the squire. Will gives the bird-call to D'Jaq that trouble is on its way. It is the mimicked call of a rare oasis-loving bird from her homeland whose voice they have taken as their signal. As the knight steps from the shadow of the trees into the open camp, he raises his cloak's hood, his face, as always, hidden to protect his unknown identity, even here.

Momentarily the knight is within striking distance of D'Jaq. Neither combatant speaks. They circle one another, each looking for the best ground to have beneath their feet before landing their first blow.

Something about the knight calls out to Will's memory. He cannot put his finger quite on what it is, but as he watches this battle about to begin, his brain calls up something from the less-visited past of his life.

[As with all flashbacks on television, this whole coming scene will pass through Will's mind in a matter of seconds.]

**FLASHBACK:** Text at the bottom of the screen and arrow SFX show us: Locksley Village, 1189.

The Earl is dead, the Manor and Village deep in Gisborne's unsympathetic grip. This is a man, after all, who has failed to earn the respect of the populace.

It is night. We hear someone weeping from within the house we know to have belonged to the Scarlet family. In the middle of the well-trod path/road through Locksley stands a horse in the moonlight. It is unsaddled, but wearing its bridle. Beautifully black in the full moon, it is a strange sight, as all the Manor's horses are stabled, and no one in the village rich enough (or yet enough of their own man) to own such a thing of value. We know from the fact that it has not been tied that it is either an exceptionally obedient horse, not given to wander, or that its rider is so nearby, their errand so brief, that there is no need to secure it.

From this image we are taken into the house, where we see a woman, exceptionally frail, though not too aged, abed, her sister, Annie at her side, has arrived from Scarborough to tend her. It is Annie who is weeping, her brother-in-law's arm around her shoulders as he also looks on, as though _he_ might soon weep from seeing his wife, the shell she has become as the result of an unasked sacrifice to her children.

In the unfinished loft space above, unable to escape the sounds, or the reality of their ill-unto-death mother, the Scarlet boys are trying to sleep: the younger, Lukey is eleven, the older, Will, fifteen.

Will is unable to take the scene below any longer. He crawls down through the hole that comes out into the front of their two rooms (his mother's bed in the back one), and drops lightly to the floor (the ladder pulled up with Lukey for the night).

He lifts the leather latch on their door as quietly as he might, only to be met with the (quite close, really) surprised eyes of a person bending over their front stoop. He is literally nose-to-nose with this stranger. So close it might look comical. The person (_Visitor?_ he thought. _Late for a visitor._), who wore a scarf over the lower half of their face, a hood over their hair, and dark trousers, barely paused a moment (though it was a long moment) in their astonishment at being caught. Like a flash, the person was to their mount, off and away before Will's mind could even process what he had seen.

He looked down to the package at his feet. He looked up to the swiftly-disappearing figure, the clop of the galloping hooves now quite audible, where the horse and rider's obviously surreptitious arrival had been silent.

Befuddled, as though in a waking dream, Will poked at the package with his toe. Across the way, in response to the hoof beats, someone opened the door of the Meade's hovel. Will bent to the package, shielding it from the curious on-looker's view.

He took it inside, with one last look over his shoulder at the road out of Locksley, now empty except for the night's low-hanging moon.

The parcel proved to be a soft shawl, wrapped about cured meat (he could not tell which kind, it had been so long since he had seen meat) and two loaves of bread.

"Praise God," said Auntie Annie when she saw it, already on her knees, "it is enough to make a broth quite rich in healing powers."

"'Twas no angel, my Janey," his father lightly dissented, sitting at his wife's bedside and patting her hand as he told her the good news. "'Twas this Nightwatchman they speak of, this man what gives where 'tis needed most."

"Did you see him, Will?" Lukey had asked, fascination and adventure in his eyes.

They all had asked.

In reply he only ever would shrug. It confounded his mind somewhat that such a person, for he had seen him, he _was_ a person, not a spectre, that such a person might know of their need, yet have nothing for the Williams', whose youngest had the most awful rickets, nor even the Meades across the way, who were like as not to steal from their own neighbors (from the Manor's pigs, even, he had seen it once) to feed their nine mouths.

But still, Will Scarlet revered this man for what he was doing. He vowed, even, to join him in such a battle. It would take an army, a battalion of Nightwatchmen to aid Locksley and its surroundings. And so he would. Whenever the opportunity presented itself.

He recalled the pledge to himself, recalled what, for many years the Nightwatchman, as a symbol, had meant to him. He never saw him again, was only, like the other villagers, able to pass along the stories of other sightings, of other anonymous good deeds.

And when he came to learn that all along it had been Marian of Knighton, well, it was not so out of the possible. She was well-liked by the peasantry, seen as a benevolent lady who did what she could to aid the poor.

Himself, he had been undone that day in the cave when she had died under D'Jaq's limited-by-the-battlefield care. More than the others, more than even Robin, he had known things about Marian (had spent the prior six years just outside her sphere of existence), known the compromising positions she had been forced into by Gisborne, known the courageous ways she tried to surmount them.

He felt a kinship there, her father, like his, also killed in this, their war. At the time a kinship, but not quite a connection. Marian often proved so prickly around Robin, so opposite Will's expectation, so very...human, it was hard to even conjure her eyes in his memory of that night, of _that_ Nightwatchman sighting, though he knew, of a certain it had been her.

When retired castle guard Joe Lacy's unfortunate arrowshot meant for the Sheriff had brought about her unmasking to the gang, he had not been sure what to think. For years he had venerated the Nightwatchman as a superhero. It took him time to see that in his (or her-the Nightwatchman's) being entirely human-even down to Marian's squabbles with Robin, her inability to accept orders, her 'at any cost' approach to situations, all the personal issues and shortcomings she had to overcome-she was, quite possibly, _superlatively_ heroic.

It was actually in her second death, at the hands of Gisborne in the Holy Land, that Will began first to understand that notion. That her non-angelic-ness, her fallen-from-the-pedestal-ness did not serve to diminish what she had done with her life, but rather burnished it to a deeper shine.

And he was not entirely dissuaded that it was the notion of the Nightwatchman being female, accomplishing all she had, who, first, to a boy sent to hang for stealing sacks of flour (spurred on by the 'Watchman's example), let him truly understand all that his now-beloved D'Jaq might be, might mean-to the cause, to the gang. To himself.

And so he had much to thank Marian of Knighton, the Nightwatchman, for, though her clandestine help had come too late to save his mother.

He had never told Marian while she yet lived: they had buried his mother in that shawl. Wrapped eternally in the Nightwatchman's munificent embrace. That shawl, taken by his family as nothing short of a miracle appearing on their stoop, not only warm and of softest wool, to his unaware-of-such-things boyish eye it had been..._beautiful_.

**End FLASHBACK**

Something in what Will sees, as the two figures before him come to blows, does not seem right, though he could not have articulated exactly what.

He calls out from his place hidden among the brushwood, stepping out into the clearing.

**Will:** [as much to D'Jaq as to the unknown knight] Hold!

_D'Jaq is, of course, too canny a fighter (as is Marian) to sheath her sword, or even look back over her shoulder to Will and take her eyes off her opponent. She does, however, 'hold', as he asks._

**Will:** [choosing to go the more polite route to get to the bottom of things] Good Sir, we are come to inquire as to whom you serve.

_Salima stands by the tree she had been seated under with Henry when D'Jaq began approaching them. She holds Henry in her arms, the look on her face quite wary. Her confidence in Marian's fighting skills are yet theoretical, for though she has heard Marian's own tales of such she has never yet seen her in action._

**Salima:** With what authority do you ask such questions of us? [slight scoff] And expect an answer?

_Marian is still attempting to heed Tristan's advice and avoid speaking in public in order not to expose her disguise for what it is. Her back is to Will, who comes ever closer. She tries to wheel around in such a way as to have both D'Jaq and Will to her front, so that she may keep her eyes trained on them. She assumes they are bandits, here to thieve what they can._

D'Jaq speaks something in her native tongue, taking the risk and asserting that they travel under the banner of Malik-Ric.

Salima reacts instantly, responding with an (rather coarse) Arabic oath [she has, after all, lived many years under Crusaders at the King's court] of disbelief. She squints, trying to see under D'Jaq's hood. The syntax used, the accents of dialect further piquing her curiosity.

During this brief, distracting exchange, Marian has accomplished her attempted maneuver. She sights Will.

Her astonished wits do not stop to remind her that she is dead, and meant to stay so.

**Marian:** [shrieks] Will? Will Scarlet!

_The sound of a knight with a drawn sword shrieking her husband's full name like a woman does little to settle D'Jaq into a mood of dtente. But in a quick move of consummate skill, Marian has her unarmed and is pulling back the Saracen outlaw's hood._

At the sight of D'Jaq's familiar face, Marian's joy could be no greater.

**Marian:** D'Jaq! D'Jaq. Allah-be-praised, D'Jaq! [kisses her on both cheeks]

_Will and D'Jaq react to the spectacle of Marian, alive, like they are submerged; slowly, hesitantly, confusedly. They look on as Marian runs between the two of them, joyous, to the point of near idiocy._

**D'Jaq:** I watched you die.

**Will: **[as though a confession] I went to your funeral.

**D'Jaq:** I watched you die.

**Will:** [ploddingly, as his mind works to get up to speed] We have visited your grave, beside Carter's. Beyond the walls of Acre. Robin carried your body there.

_Marian grabs his hands and pumps both of them up and down, her excitement bordering on childlike._

**D'Jaq:** [also having trouble with what her eyes are showing her] He would not allow John to help him.

**Will:** [continuing with their strange conversation] I thought he would die, too.

**Marian:** [deliriously: think winning both showcases on _The Price Is Right_] I warn you! I am going to kiss you, Will Scarlet. I am going to kiss you good. You have found me! [for a millisecond she remembers the others] Found us!

**D'Jaq:** Found you?

**Marian:** Us!

**Will: **[not really understanding what this subverting of her hopes will mean to Marian] But we were not searching for you. We are scouting ahead for the King.

**Marian:** [first drop of cold water] So, Robin...

**D'Jaq:** [blunt, as is her way] We have neither seen nor heard from Robin in nearly two years.

**Marian:** [now the full dousing, she is returned to earth with a bit of a thud][pointlessly repeating] Salima, they have not seen nor heard from Robin in two years.

**Salima:** [because it is her job, in this moment to say this] I am sure he is well, Lady, and brave Much with him.

**D'Jaq:** [even in this moment distracted by such a discovery] Salima? You are the Sultana Salima? The Lionheart's sultana?

**Salima: **[nonplussed, she does not know why she might interest this other woman so] I am Salima, who once lived in the Lionheart's camp. Who serves the Lionheart.

_D'Jaq offers an act of obeisance common among her culture to those more highly elevated in status._

**Will:** [back on track] Marian. How come you to be alive?

**Marian:** [trying to shake from her head the thought that Robin is not behind their appearance here][recalling Tristan] It is a long story, which I will gladly share, but we travel with a Court page-recently promoted to outlaw squire-who does not know our true identities. So for now, take this: I live, and am called Matilda. Salima has her name, and her true self is known.

**D'Jaq:** [with quick eyes recalling Henry] And the child?

**Marian:** [her eyes shining, it takes her a proud moment to get the word out] His.

**Will: **[gasps, he had forgotten the infant in the Saracen woman's arms][his own eyes shine similarly][the word coming out like a little laugh of joy] Yes?

**D'Jaq: **[getting there-to the facts-before her husband][she does not even pose the thought as a question] And he does not know.

**Marian:** I have neither seen nor communicated with him in over ten months.

**Will:** [putting it all together] Have you by any chance been staying with the Queen's Court in Calais?

_Marian and Will continue to talk, but the camera follows D'Jaq. She has wandered over to Salima to get a better look at little Henry._

**Salima:** [herself feeling a little impressed] You are D'Jaq-Saffiya. [beginning to sound, perhaps, a bit like Tristan] The boy slave turned woman outlaw. You know how to make the black powder. You healed my lady from Gisborne's first gut-wound to her. You counseled John Little against bringing the disguised Sheriff of Nottingham back to the Sherwood camp. [as though this is equally, if not far more, impressive to her] It was _you_ who brought my lady's lord and his men to Bassam's house for hospitality, bringing Europeans and Saracens to table together, peacefully.

**D'Jaq:** [shrugs as she is playing with the baby's fingers] Yes, something like that.

**Salima:** [referring to D'Jaq's previous salutation of her] And why do you do me such an honor?

**D'Jaq: **[still keeping her focus on Henry] I am not the only one of our people who know the mistreatment and banishment you have suffered at the hands of your mother's family. My father, before he died, wished to speak against it. He was [falls back on the Arabic here for some version of a very distant, probably uneasily proven cousin-ship] to your mother.

_Salima's eyes react in curious surprise._

**Salima:** [knowing the next part of the story too well] But they would not listen to him. They would not let him speak.

**D'Jaq:** [gently] By the time your tale reached our ears, you had already been sent away to meet your Fate. Those that knew where you might be found kept such secrets to themselves. The wars had begun again in earnest. It was no easy task finding anyone in those days.

**Salima:** Much less a girl in the enemy's camp?

**D'Jaq: **[not lingering on the bad, she herself has lived as a slave, no stranger to hard times and exploitation] You have distinguished yourself, there. I have not heard King Richard speak so highly of a woman, save His own mother. Of a certain not even His Queen, Berengaria.

_Salima thought, 'So, I have fallen again into the King's purview.' She considered this development._

**Salima:** And so you do not seek us at the request of Sir Robin?

**D'Jaq:** _Sir_ Robin. You are very formal.

**Salima:** He is my lady's lord. [as if explaining Robin's status in medieval hierarchy to D'Jaq (though of course D'Jaq is far from ignorant of such things)] He is the King's knight, and baron. His title of Huntingdon and lands surrounding Locksley have never been revoked by the Crown. My Lady Marian remains quite unsure if a seizure of such would even be legal.

**D'Jaq:** [curious at this other woman still employing such reverences and titles when she has clearly been on quite intimate terms with all involved] _Lady_ Marian? And Malik-Ric. He is never 'Richard' to you, never anything less than, 'the King'? He speaks of you so informally. I naturally assumed the informality extended in both directions.

**Salima:** The Lionheart is the King. He is not Eleanor, nor Philip, nor his father, Old Henry. I sometimes wonder if he is even truly blood-related to John Lackland, 'Prince' as he is known in England. King Richard will be 'the King' until I die from this earth. There is no other way for me to think of him.

**D'Jaq:** [bemused, as though; ah, well...] When you meet Robin, he will scupper your 'Sir' Robin or your 'my lord' quickly enough, I think.

**Salima:** [does not inform D'Jaq that she has already formed an acquaintance with Robin] It is not for him to do so. He was knighted by the King. _I_ shall not agree to undo the honor with which Coeur-de-Lion awarded him, even at Sir Robin's own insistence.

* * *

Before too much can be gotten into explaining to either Will or D'Jaq Marian's 'resurrection', and Salima's part in it, the baby's coming, etc-or even why they are now fleeing Court in disguise, Tristan returns from where he has been gathering wood, effectively silencing all informative conversation.

He casts his eyes around the abruptly more populous camp curiously, but his page training keeps him from immediately asking too many questions of the unexpected new additions.

Because she gave it to him for protection (since she would be staying with Marian and Marian's sword, and they have only two blades among the three of them), he returns the dagger that Salima bade him take should he encounter trouble when out in the forest on his own.

Tristan barely has time to look-over the young man and Saracen boy? woman? when D'Jaq has the weapon he is extending back to Salima in her own quick hands.

She rubs the now-uncovered golden hilt, absent its rubies.

**D'Jaq:** [her eyes cloud up, a vertical frown line forms between her drawn brows] Allan is dead?

**Tristan:** [utterly out of the loop] Allan?

**D'Jaq:** [to Salima] Why else would you have his dagger?

**Salima:** [her brain balks] Dead?

**Tristan: **[confidently trying to correct D'Jaq's misperception] No. This blade was given to her by the minstrel Llanio.

**D'Jaq:** I do not know this minstrel. But, I know this blade. [pulls it from its sheath] Why, the engraving on it is quite unique. [runs her hand smoothly across it, feeling its divots and depths. Pauses, makes a connection] "_Salima_". [looks at her] It is your own name. I do not think it is possible there could be another so like it in all the world.

_Salima knows that she would, certainly have to take issue with that, but before another word may be said about Allan, his possible death, his connection to Salima, or his potential whereabouts, there is a crash and thumping approaching through the woods without attempting any degree of stealth. A moment later, before anyone could even prepare, Sir Gautier of Laurent-Thibault burst through the trees, into the clearing, his sword at the ready in his one good hand._

**...TBC...**


	55. Spears into Pruning hooks

Will Scarlet, D'Jaq, Marian of Knighton, and the Sultana Salima stood in the French clearing, somewhere beside the road betwixt Amiens and Calais, surprised by Gautier's clumsy, but effective, arrival. They were three swords and one much-talked-about Saracen dagger to his broadsword and Crusader knight's battle expertise.

A quick look passed between the Scarlets and Marian. In a tactical maneuver, and an attempt to not leave the most-vulnerable of their party unprotected, she stepped back further within the shelter of the forest that already contained Salima, Henry, and Tristan.

**Marian:** [instructively] I may need you, Salima. Tristan, take Henry.

_The young boy accepted the again-sleeping infant, familiar enough with holding, and to an extent caring for him._

Under her breath, Marian groused to herself, "two years and they've both gone soft-forgotten the good use of having a trusty bow in any situation..." Her own line of sight to Gautier was such that she could easily have dropped him (problem solved) a full minute ago. [her command of a bow greatly improved from that of her 10-year-old self in #53, "At the end, the beginning".]

She could not fully hear what was passing between Will and D'Jaq, but she could well imagine, just from the facial expressions Gautier wore: _My quarrel is not with you, it's the woman I want, blah, blah, stand down your weapons and I will leave without incident, blah, etc._

It was Marian's honed-in concentration on the action before her that allowed Salima to slip back out into the open, on a direct course to intersect with Gautier, himself.

Marian began a lunge out into the open herself, to prevent her friend, but her mind recalled to her Tristan and Henry, neither of whom could be left unguarded, and instead found she could, at best, lift up a brief prayer (eyes fully open) that Will and D'Jaq would prove enough of a deterrent to protect her best friend in all the world from the man she (obviously, now) sought to confront.

Will and D'Jaq, in their entire ignorance of the situation they had walked into, yet of which they were now an integral part, appeared set rather off-balance at Salima's appearance. Smartly, though, they did not lower their swords.

**Gautier:** [greeting Salima, a predator's grin on his face] The deadline I offered you is well passed, _whore_.

_The last word he speaks in Arabic, a word meaning, even, something far worse, and D'Jaq's eyes react as though the pejorative itself has stung her, though it was directed at Salima._

Salima stands her ground, not lowering her eyes from him.

**Gautier:** You will come with me at once, or I will find this Lady "M" hiding in the trees yonder, I think, and _she_ will come with me as well. She is far beyond Eleanor's protection, now. Or would you prefer I bring the boy? His baron-father need never know what has become of him, beyond that he left Court without being granted permission to do so.

**Salima:** I will not go with you, Laurent-Thibault.

_Though her words are not ones addressing emotion, the weight of them, the significance of them, causes her to react with a bit of a shake to herself._

**Salima:** As all here stand as my witnesses, I will never go with you, willing or un. [produces the dagger] Should you try to force me, or my lady, you will find either yourself-or myself-dead.

_She is entirely sincere in this threat._

**Salima:** I think the world no longer big enough to accommodate both of us. I think the air of life not plentiful enough to fill both our lungs. As you began our life together with blood, and watered it similarly, and generously, along the way, I think it only right that blood shall also put an end to it. One way or another. I will. Not. Go with you.

_This statement of defiance enrages Gautier. The last thing he wants is his prize damaged (by hands not his own), or worse, dead. Gautier lunges toward her to grab the dagger away, out of her hands and prevent any harm she might cause to herself._

Will's sword comes up, at Gautier's chest level, preventing the knight from making any contact with Salima as she, having said her piece, retreats back toward Marian and the cover of the trees, though she stands where she is not hidden.

* * *

What is left in this tableau has all the appearance of a Mexican standoff; swords drawn on either side, neither willing to give way. Utter deadlock.

Which is exactly how it would look to the next group of travelers that, close on Gautier's heels, burst into the clearing, likewise in search of a knight rumored to be traveling the countryside paying in Coeur-de-Lion's gold. This group's leader, in fact, suspicions the incognito knight may, in fact, be Richard, Himself; the very person they are seeking.

The first two of this new group broke through the forest scrub between the trees that Marian's party was (mostly) hidden within, and the Scarlets holding the knight Gautier at bay.

Not knowing anyone to be in the trees, they only see what is directly in front of them; Gautier head-on, and the backsides of Will and D'Jaq.

**Gautier:** Locksley?

_They two are acquainted from their time on Crusade. Acquainted, but not close. Locksley does have Gautier's respect as an equal._

**Robin Hood:** [with recognition] Gautier? What finds you here?

_Robin has entered the clearing with only Allan (the other outlaws wait within the wood) at his side. Robin and Allan's swords are both handy, Allan's already raised defensively. They are not sure what they have stumbled into, only it appears to be an escalating disagreement._

**Allan-A-Dale:** [in his sweep of the area he has sighted Salima behind them, at the edge of the tree cover. He swiftly pulls his head about, trying to keep her from seeing his face.][quietly] Er, Robin?

_Allan believes they have struck gold: that Salima and her mistress, and the King's rumored bastard, are nearby, and, on a personal note, at his sighting of her his hands, never given to sweat before combat of any nature, begin to do so in earnest._

**Gautier:** [presenting his grievance, which he naturally expects Robin, as a fellow brother-in-arms and nobleman, to side with him on] This woman, [uses his amputated stub to point out Salima behind the Sherwood two] who is mine, refuses to come with me.

_Robin turns his head only slightly to look over to the woman in question, knowing Allan's eyes will be trained face-forward as he does so. Robin does a subtle double-take upon recognizing her, and a frown line grows between his brows, but ever the consummate bluffer, he wipes it away before returning his full attention forward._

His attention so keen on what is occurring that his mind locks out any other thoughts beyond the present moment.

**Allan:** [still trying to indicate to Robin who he knows Salima is][again under his breath] Robin...

**Robin:** [speaking in terms he knows a cretin like Gautier will understand][to Gautier] Ah, well, this is very awkward. For she was give to me by Richard Himself.

**Gautier:** [roars with a laugh] That is hard news to credit. You, Locksley? Notoriously disinterested in plundering native flesh? To you Richard gives not just any heathen woman, but this one?

_Robin's mind is so in-the-moment he has not allowed himself to process what Salima's presence here might mean, nor speculate on who the two companions of hers holding off Gautier might be. He is laser-focused on the matter at hand. Nothing more, nothing less._

**Allan:** [through gritted teeth] Robin...

_Robin's mien is causal, devil-may-care, even. He shrugs off Gautier's near-branding of him as a liar._

**Robin:** [reasonably] We may fight over rights to the woman here, battle to determine my veracity, or, it would seem we must wait for the King's Own judgment on the matter. [lifts his eyebrows as if expecting a reply] Should you wish immediate resolution, [spreads his arms open wide] I am ready, at your word, for combat.

_Robin begins stretching to limber himself._

**Allan:** [hissing now] Robin!

**Will:** [having, like D'Jaq, recognized Robin's broad English tones almost immediately upon the outlaw's entrance to the clearing, turns back and interjects, revealing himself] 'Tis not far to the King, should we all ride with haste. We may be at His side 'ere suppertime's passed.

**Robin:** [gives a very laid-back greeting, as though he saw Will but scant moments (instead of several years) ago][with a lift of the chin] Will Scarlet. [grins, nods] Well met.

* * *

During this time, Marian has been among the shielding trees, knowing enough about combat to know that distractions-such as seeing the wife (and child you did not know about) for the first time in nearly a year-do not ensure injury-free ends to conflict. So she bided her time, doing the job she had taken on: protecting Tristan and Henry. And trying to protect Salima, who still had not returned all the way to the shelter of the trees.

Salima watched her future unfold before her eyes [not dissimilarly to what she did in #11, "In the Camp of the King"]. She did not wish to kill herself, nor, truthfully, to kill Gautier, but she was resolved in her mind not to go with him, and further resolved to pay whatever the cost of that rebellion against her Fate might be. What Sir Robin (of all people) was doing stepping out of the forest with another man whose back was to her, at his side, she could not say, but as happy as Lady Marian had been at the sight of Will and D'Jaq Scarlet, so the Lady Salima was at the most-fortuitous arrival of her lady's lord.

Tristan held Henry, his grip tightening on the child from time to time as tensions in the clearing ratcheted ever upward. The new man to enter the fray was quite full of cheek, actually, impudent and bold. He liked him. He didn't look much of knight, appearing in peasant-type clothing. But he did look awfully heroic with that oddly curved sword in his hand. Peasants didn't wield swords, after all. But then again, ladies like Matilda beside him didn't wield swords either, and yet the one she now held in her hands he, himself, had placed there.

'Ere suppertime's passed,' the young man was saying to the newcomer, and something, he knew not what, pulled Tristan, like an imaginary cord being reeled in, out from among the trees. As he passed by Salima, rather than holding him back, forcing him to the shadowing safety of the trees, she simply took Henry from him.

When Tristan was some short distance beyond where Salima stood, he heard the cheeky newcomer name the young man; 'Will Scarlet', he was saying, 'well met.'

Tristan's eyes grew round and his senses pricked, his ears straining as though he might hear the words again, their echo still bouncing about among the grass, did he listen hard enough.

As if in answer to Tristan's intense concentration, the rest of the Sherwood band spills out of the forest in a way that's visually very similar to "Sheriff Got Your Tongue?". The young boy stands, gob-smacked, as all fall in, weapons at the ready. It is a very inspiring moment, the soundtrack music swells. Because we are seeing this from Tristan's viewpoint, they almost seem beyond-human: Much and his shield, Michel, with his new-to-him bow and quiver, Little John (we have a shot of Tristan mouthing 'Little John' at his appearance) and his quarterstaff, his hair has more white in it now, as does his beard, the result of his injury and labored convalescence. D'Jaq and Will have stepped away from their positions warding off Gautier, so they are also able to turn and watch the clearing further filling up with people.

_Though not all of Robin's newly-reconfigured band have yet exited the forest, in the light of such overwhelming reinforcements Gautier grudgingly agrees to Robin's proposed solution. He did not relish the idea of armed combat with such a knight as Richard's Locksley, captain of the Lionheart's Own private guard, anyway, not with the physical deficit he, himself, now suffered._

**Gautier:** ...Take this to Richard? 'Tis your word on the matter, Locksley?

**Robin:** [nods, indicated his fellows] We shall follow you to the King to sort this out. _Gladly_.

_Robin turns and indicates Little John._

**Robin:** John, here, will give you a hand with your mount. Your grey seems caught among the brush. [to appease Gautier's skepticism about this offer] He's very good with horses, aren't you John?

_Little John grunts, shares a second of eye-contact with Robin and walks to Gautier's side, where he enacts some "Turk Flu"-fu, knocking Gautier out cold and binding him. Gautier will go to the King-and the rest shall indeed follow him, keeping the letter of Robin's word, but he will be bound to ensure the safety (and comfort) of all in the traveling party._

* * *

At the sound of Gautier's large frame thudding to the ground, a queerish, almost mythical silence fell over the clearing, as if the voices of all-unheard by each other for so long-no longer worked. Luke Scarlet stepped from the forest, though, breaking the spell. He hit the open ground at a run, Will dashing to the middle ground to meet his brother in a bear hug, where each took turns lifting the other off the forest floor.

From that moment, utter chaos erupted.

Aislinn also exited the woods, her staff in hand. Tristan stared at her (as he did at everything happening), open-mouthed. Asher (though a rather altered version of him-her-self), Michel; even-he saw now-Llanio. _All here_.

And that first, cheeky man. The Court page had accounted for all heroes in his stories save two: Allan-A-Dale, and the man of all men, Hood himself. Tristan looked the man standing beside Llanio over closely.

"It is him," he heard Salima, who had walked up behind him, confirm. "Behold, the physical embodiment of your philosophical precept, young Master."

The twelve-year-old's brain reeled: he stood in the very presence of Robin Hood. The Lady Salima somehow knew the identity of Robin Hood. The minstrel Llanio, his very good friend, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Robin Hood.

Had the boy died in that moment, passed forever into eternity, he could have gotten no closer to Paradise than he was among that company, in that French clearing.

* * *

Interestingly, resident of that same French clearing, Robin Hood the man found himself to be in an uncomfortable state of purgatory.

He could not, as Much was, run ahead to meet and heartily greet Will and D'Jaq (all Much's negative feelings about their staying behind in the Holy Land little more than evaporating mist, now). He could not, as John was, smile broadly, and slap backs with unfettered delight at the gang's stroke of luck in finding the Sherwood diaspora here. He could not, like Luke, rejoice, energized at finding a member of his family thought forever lost to him.

Robin Hood could only take it all in, an outsider to their happiness, a spectator to their joy.

He could only look to find the Lady Salima, her incompatible presence here fully recalled to his mind, knowing that when he spoke to her he knew not what to expect might first come out his mouth: _What are you doing in Northern France? When left you Aquitaine?_ Where is Marian? _Why does Laurent-Thibault so violently pursue you? Are you safe, and well?_ Where is Marian?_ Who is this boy that stands beside you? This child in your arms? Why are you traveling with children, when passage here is so uncertain and often unsafe? Is Marian safe and well? Why left you her? Why? Where is Marian? _Where is Marian?_ **Where** is Marian?_

When his mouth did engage, the question he asks surprises even him. "Is this your child?" It is a question once asked to him, what seemed like aeons ago.

The half-Saracen answered him: "No."

Movement came from the tree behind her, and a voice spoke; "He is _yours_."

Marian pushed aside a branch and stepped out into the sunlight and the open space.

Robin Hood, hardened Crusader, excellent bluffer when it came to cards, outlaw so cool in a crisis that butter would not melt in his mouth, felt his heart leap, quite powerfully, into his throat.

"_He?_" he asked her, not sure where to place his eyes: on the woman, his wife, as she walked toward him, his desire to catalog everything about her in that moment, that longed-for reunion, to note any possible alteration for good or for ill; or on this child, this babe held in the arms of the nearby Lady Salima, his..._son_.

Tears leapt into his eyes, for a good while dampening any further questions he had as he simply stood, in the amazement of the moment, of the unspeakableness of what had come to pass.

Marian did not take long to come to his side.

"Woman," as was their way, his words (and mind) sparked at the sight of her, "will you never stay where last I left you? Will you never learn to do as you're told?" He looked at the child. "What have you been up to? For this I see before me is well-beyond any earthly form of embroidery."

She answered him in kind. "Only tending the garden you yourself so willingly planted. Is that not work womanly enough?"

"Beyond all expectation," he answered sincerely, and she saw in his eyes (indeed, all present did) that he would kiss her.

"Do not kiss me," she warned him, "if it is only to send me-to send us-away again."

He looked at her, as the Lady Salima deposited the child, his son, in his arms. He was caught off-guard by the action, to accommodate the child having to surrender his sword quite clumsily to Allan, still at his opposite side.

Marian continued her threat. "Do not touch me at all unless this is truly forever, starting this moment, this day. Do not kiss me," she said again, renewing her warning.

Listening no further he one-armed his hold on the sleeping baby and grabbed her roughly by the back of the neck, pulling her to him, and kissed her like a soldier finally, truly returned from Crusade, a soldier that has been gone too long and seen far too much to recall softness or tenderness, or how to be gentle. The kiss of a soldier ready to beat his sword into ploughshares, of a man who would never again leave.

She tasted to him of the cool water of Locksley's well, of his father's cup Thornton would sometimes let him sip from when he was but a child. She smelled of fresh Knighton hay, of Nettlestone bread rising in the trencher.

She was his home.

In response to the tender moment his parents shared (and which the entire population of the clearing had stopped to watch), Henry Yeoman of Locksley, heir to the earldom of Huntingdon, opened his mouth and let out a resounding protest at being uncomfortably smooshed between his mother and this strange, unknown man.

"She is not dead, you see," Much began to eagerly explain to all who would listen (which proved most everyone, as all were quite confused by the appearance of-to those who knew her-the dead lady Marian, or, this woman that Robin Hood was so passionately clenching, as though he had no desire to ever be parted from-to those who did not know her). "'Twas the King's Own directive that her life be kept secret from all. Even, for a time, me." Much nodded his head, as though the gesture was needed to convince everyone the notion that he was not always in on the secret could possibly be true.

A sort of receiving line formed, then, around the happy, reunited husband and wife (and new father and son), as each outlaw present stepped forward to greet Robin's thought-lost lady, and make over his new-found son.

Luke Scarlet proved somewhat shy of Robin's lady, while Michel found it difficult to understand that the Lady Matilda was somehow involved with the band of outlaws he had joined. Little John surprised everyone when, instead of his usual hearty backslap, he engulfed Marian in his arms and hugged her like his own daughter, lost and now found.

There were numerous apologies exchanged between Marian and Aislinn Scarlet when they came face-to-face, and more than several somewhat complicated explanations, followed by the delight of knowing that they could continue their friendship-and their quarterstaff lessons.

Allan-A-Dale, though the second of the Sherwood band to enter the clearing, found himself hanging back from greeting Marian. He was breathless at the thought she yet lived, and confounded over how he had not managed, during his time at the castle, to suss it out. After all, Marian alive meant more to him than the others, for he well-knew Marian's kidnapping to the Holy Land, her being caught-out as she tried to do what he should have helped her do (subvert the Sheriff's plot), Marian's inability to escape on the extended overland journey to the port of disembarkation: all this lay at his feet.

It was a load of guilt he had carried, despite his getting his head on straight at the end, when it was almost nearly too late. Despite, with Carter's fortuitous appearance, it seeming like everything would turn out right.

* * *

While the majority of the clearing's occupants are engaged with Robin and Marian and Henry (Tristan still being so overwhelmed at where he has landed that he is still simply in the 'stupidly staring' phase), Allan, who has deferred his greeting for Marian, turns to Salima, and upon her glance back at him, they wander off a little ways from the tight knot of celebrants.

**Allan:** That your lady, then?

_Salima nods._

**Allan: **The strong boy she gave birth to not the King's son?

_Salima shakes her head, 'no'._

**Allan:** [not entirely hating the idea][scoffs] Ah, but you must have had me labeled for a sucker.

_Her eyes show that the thought never entered her mind._

**Salima:** So you are, 'A-Dale'?

**Allan: **[in a way, now, dreading the moment, worried what such knowledge about him might mean to her] Yes; the man who betrayed Robin Hood.

**Salima: **Don't call yourself that.

**Allan: **I do not believe you could have spent such time alone with Marian and the story not come up. Once, or twice.

**Salima:** [shakes head] Still, don't call yourself that. That man is a man that I think I have probably never met.

**Allan:** [taking full responsibility] Nah. He stands before you now, the sum of all his past, glorious or in.

**Salima:** I did not know who you were, nor did Marian. It did not seem Asher knew who we were, either.

**Allan: **As far as I know, not even a _speck_ of suspicion.

**Salima:** So you _are_ a spy.

**Allan:** Was. Now I am simply, [shrugs] Robin Hood's man.

_Salima speaks something to him in Arabic, expecting him to understand it, as she believes he knows that the dagger he gave her significantly carries her name on its blade._

**Allan:** Sorry, what?

_She scoured his face at his reply. Was this another Llanio ruse, underselling his knowledge? No, she assured herself it was not._

**Salima:** I have...missed you. The Court seemed to lose some color with you gone.

**Allan:** And the lower kitchens?

**Salima: **Your Nell has not yet recovered.

_He caught her eye as it took him a moment to recall the girl she spoke of, the one named Brigid he had tried to convince Salima was his reason for being so often there at table. He smiled back at her, his face tilted to the side, a laugh in his throat._

Salima laughed.

As she did so, the neckline of her traveling dress shifted for a moment, revealing to him several inches of painful-to-see bruising, purple as violets, green as late-summer grapes.

Her eyes caught his reaction, as his face fell from the jolly moment they had been sharing. Quickly she readjusted her shawl to cover it from sight.

His eyebrows drew together in an expression of defeat, of choices hard to make, and possibly wrong. His mouth puckered from the smile it had worn into a look one might wear when trying to ease another's pain.

He wanted, he longed, to lift her neckline to the side, to assess how far the damage went, how he (or another) might best help to alleviate it. But she was not his, not to touch freely, and certainly not to touch unbidden. He did not speak out to threaten the now-unconscious Sir Gautier, though he wished he felt he could.

**Allan:** He should not 'ave done that. [reasonably] You must take this mistreatment to the King.

**Salima:** [honestly] King Richard cannot be bothered with a nobleman's treatment of a common whore.

**Allan:** [shakes his head] Don't call yourself that.

**Salima:** [heavy with irony] I stand before you now, [turns her head to indicate the others] quite publicly before all here, the sum of all my pasts, glorious or in. Mostly, 'in'.

**Allan:** Still, don't call yourself that.

**Salima:** [sagely] It is just a word. Its use has never yet caused me pain. [smiles world-weariedly] 'Tis only the events that occurred causing me to attain its status that I wish to leave behind.

* * *

They were called back to the group soon enough, for time was nearing that the gang must make for the King in order to arrive before nightfall. Little John, Michel, Luke, Aislinn and Will had already gone on ahead with a revived-and quite angry to be bound-Sir Gautier.

Much and Tristan rode out at the head of the second party, D'Jaq and Salima coming next, followed by Robin and Marian and Henry, all three on one mount, Robin refusing to leave Marian's side for even the length of the ride. He sat behind the saddle, while she held Henry in her arms from within its seat, and allowed the horse to simply follow his companions.

Which left Allan with much to think about, bringing up the rear, alone, and leading Marian's rider-less horse.

* * *

When they came to where King Richard was, He joyously granted them an immediate audience, bringing them along with Him to a nearby Hall of a loyal supporter, where He made them the guests of honor, so happy He was to be reunited with Robin and the others.

There was food like Much could not hardly even remember when, and music. Aislinn herself sat in for more than one song. _"Before the night is over/Make your heart an open door/Then all we hold inside us/Won't divide us anymore."_

There were to be beds and even baths for as many as would wish them, and the night and the happiness all felt seemed endless.

As for Sir Gautier of Laurent-Thibault, the King would not immediately agree to see him and hear his complaint, deferring any meeting with him until the morrow, or when it might best suit Him.

_"Before the night is over/And the time we have is done/Before our courage fades away..."_

Robin found a moment in which Salima came over to speak to Marian, and from his seat beside his wife, he spoke to her best friend, her constant companion, using words he felt he ought to have offered long before.

**Robin:** I find, Lady, that I am most utterly indebted to you. You have saved the life of my wife, safeguarded my son, saved the life of my King, and even myself. Though I could never hope to recompense you for such services, know that all that is in my power, is at your command.

_Marian scrunched her nose at Salima, in an silent squee of, 'isn't he awesome?'._

**Salima:** Your words are kind, Sir Robin, and of course, flattering to hear, but the sincerest wish I have in all the world is that I might never be separated from Lady Marian and young Henry, but modestly serve and companion them for the rest of my days.

**Robin:** [smiles broadly] Then I agree, that with the King's permission, it shall be so. You shall always be most welcome and honored in our home.

_"Let our hearts be bound as one."_

**Marian:** [adding on] Wherever that may be.

_Robin looked at her askance._

**Marian:** [answering his look] Knighton or Locksley.

**Robin:** [shakes head, protrudes lower lip] We cannot live at Knighton.

**Marian:** [confounded at what she thinks is a shift into a squabble, thinking they are starting into a snit] And why not, I should ask? You said the Hall had been rebuilt.

**Robin:** Yes, but Clem is-

**Marian:** [like the bottom has dropped out] Clem? Clem _is_...?

_And so the Lady Marian came to be told that Gisborne was dead, at the hands of her own, thought-dead brother._

**Allan:** [who has been eavesdropping, as Salima was part of the conversation] You Knighton lot. Can't trust any of you.

**Marian:** And how is that?

**Allan:** To be dead. To stay dead. {catches himself at Salima's horrified look][throws his hands up in surrender] Not that I'm complainin' nor nuffin'.

"The night had the air of an never-ending Christmas Eve, of a peasant's revel, almost, and though the forest folk were somewhat shy at first, having so little experience with kings and banquets to which they had actually been invited, 'twas often said in those days that the King danced with each of the ladies in turn, and there in that French Hall, filled with Sherwood Outlaws, formed the gayest of all His royal Courts...the like of which has never been seen since."

Here it comes, the _Final Shot of Series proper_:  
Unusually, at this final sentence, we hear a familiar voice narrating over the on-screen action. It is Little John's voice.

The shot of the party banquet fades out to black and instantly fades in to the face of Little John, lit by a Locksley homes snug fireside.

"And thats how it happened, really, truly?" asks Little Little John (perhaps eleven or twelve years old), leaning against his fathers large knee.

(It dawns on viewers that the season, or at least the final episode we have witnessed has been being told as a story by Little John `a la The Princess Bride). [although, of course, there are parts (particularly of the T+/M- nature) that he could not know to relate. So he has shared some version of the story w/ Little Little John.]

"And thats how it happened, really, truly?" asks Little Little John.

"The very way," Little John says, "was I not there myself?" John then shares a significant glance with (the now-revealed) Alice Little, seated at her work, also beside the fire. It is a picture of home and peaceful contentment (and so Little John gets his desired and deserved end: wife, son, home).

Little Little John hugs and kisses his father fiercely, and goes to the door leading outside. He pulls it open on Locksley village and walks through, smiling. It would appear he is going out to play.

He strides into the village, and then, as though through time-lapse photography we see him walk forward, not just along Locksley's path, but down through the centuries: 1200, 1300, and so on, his surroundings and his own clothes changing with time. Little Little John does not age. This transition takes very little time, though it happens in a sort of slow motion.

Its now 1920 Locksley, and he is in knickerbockers and picks up a bike to ride. Horse-drawn carts change into early cars on the road, until they morph into present-day hybrid vehicles and his bike becomes a skateboard. At this point, we are in the present.

Over by a forests tree-lined edge, in a municipal-type park, he sees a large boy, obviously a bully, picking on two smaller kids, a boy and a girl. LLJohn (as his skateboard is tagged) takes on the bully and gives him a what-for, rescuing the two kids from the situation. He then turns and runs to the edge of the surrounding woods.

The bully is defeated, and at first we think LLJohn is running away, but in a moment we realize, like the corn in Field of Dreams, _this_ is no ordinary forest he is running to.

LLJohn stops at its green edge and turns, right hand holding a familiar carved wooden tag to the sky, left hand pointing straight ahead, at the vanquished bully, at the boy and girl, at us, and shouts with all his might: "I fight...for Robin Hood and King Richard!"

And with that clarion call, almost faery-like shapes coalesce at the edge of the forest, until a large group of people is assembled behind him among the trees.

The camera flicks across familiar faces, some we may not have seen for awhile such as Roy (and his nobbler), some we may not have expected, such as the fool from Season Twos "Lardners Ring".

Allan-a-Dale and three couples complete the center of the group: Will and DJaq, Much and Eve, and in the middle, as the theme music swells to crescendo, Marian in her most-beautifully resplendent gown (clearly not one she would ever have worn in Sherwood, but she is shown here as Sherwoods queen), yet with her sword at her side.

Robin is shown, his quiver on his back and that mischievous spark in his eye. All say, as one, (LLJohn, too); "We. Are Robin Hood!" and Robins eye twinkles as he smiles, winks at us on cue with the music building.

He draws and shots up, LLJohns eyes follow the arrow as the camera swoops up, up and away following the arrow improbably gaining speed as the theme continues to play inspirationally, until we see the top of the forest. Yet it keeps pulling back til we see the modern-day cities and landscape now planted around it. (Perhaps this is even a shot of present-day Nottinghamshire).

The arrow, still going, shoots seemingly up into the atmosphere (a bit like Superman), circling the earth and turning time back, just as Little Little Johns walk brought it forward.

By the time the arrow comes back, swooping toward Sherwood, the modern-day cities are gone and Locksley village is once again in the 1100s as the arrow returns to earth, shoots down Locksley's main path and into Sherwood Forest, losing itself among the dense trees. The theme music reaches speaker-shattering levels and turns to the Robin/Marian theme just as the credits roll on the now-black screen.

* * *

You see, Powers That Be that killed my favorite show [with a sword to Marian's guts (and later, I am told, with some sort of poison to Robin himself)] long before its time, you have to end on the idea of Robin & Co. as eternal, their heroism as timeless, because we must remember: no matter how a particular tale ends (death, glory, sadness, reunion, love, estrangement, betrayal) the _story_, the story goes on.

The _story_ always goes on.

* * *

(last time to type this on this story) **...TBC...**


	56. The Story Always Goes On

...The story always goes on.

For mere months later, Richard is dead, and John coronated King of England. Royal pardons are revoked, and Robin (and the others) will have to choose whether to serve the man whose plans they worked so hard to scupper, or return to the shade of Sherwood and continue to fight against both the old Sheriff, and this new king.

And so, even in this way, the story goes on.

* * *

And, for just a small space further, a wee bit of our story also goes on...[since this is after the series finale, this must be, like, a Christmas-time reunion movie or something, a follow-up webisode, I dunno. The Waltons used to do occasional holiday made-for-TV films after they were off the air, right?]

* * *

So the suits at the network decide the series finale (because it was so popular and so highly rated, Nielsens through the ceiling, Emmys and BAFTAs and a couple of Screen Actor's Guild awards-I mean, people, the _M*A*S*H_ finale was nothing to this one) should be repeated in its full two-hour glory just before the hour and a half of this follow-up holiday film is aired.

[This is a film aired around the holidays. It does not include holiday content or storyline.]

The film is live-intro'd by Keith Allen and Richard Armitage (everyone else is on-location and terribly busy as their careers have totally taken off and hit the heights-not to say that Keith's and Richard's haven't, only, they're starring in the West End revival of Neil Simon's _The Odd Couple_ together [Richard as Felix to Keith's Oscar], so they are close by, and they do the intro's live feed from Keith's dressing room at the entr'acte). Yes, they are in makeup and full costume (for _The Odd Couple_).

You've gone and thrown a viewing party for fifteen of your tightest RH LiveJournal and Facebook friends, all of whom have come in from out of town. You've even made a (badly rendered) papier-mch version of a pig's head as a centerpiece. Thankfully, for the sake of your guests, you are living in a state/province/shire that has outlawed black powder.

* * *

_Coda_: **The Final Recounting in the Tale of the half-Saracen Sultana Salima**

For though one might not expect it, Little John is a fine teller of tales, indeed.

And in the cozy nights, in their bed, his Alice safe within his arms, _this_ is the tale she most likes to hear, though it is not so popular among the peasants, nor so well-known as the tales of Robin and Marian.

But snuggled there, wrapped in his embrace, living their own happily-ever-after to the story of Alice and John Little, it is often _this_ romantic tale she is most likely to request; never losing interest and falling asleep in his arms with his beard comfortably rough against her skin, until its happy, happy end.

* * *

It begins back at the party, the same night Robin and all his company are reunited not only with one-another, but with the King.

The Hall that has been put at Richard's disposal is not a particularly lavish one. It is larger than Knighton's Hall that was, its main room's size big enough to accommodate the entirety of Robin's party (and some of the King's, as well as servants) for eating, as well as later, when it would be used for those it sheltered to sleep in (a common practice in those times). There are also individual bedrooms being prepared for the most prominent among its visitors: the King's, in particular, is receiving quite the special treatment.

Richard, who never traveled anywhere without musicians (just ask Blondel), has brought along some of his best from Aquitaine, as well as a few he picked up along the way through France. As in the last moments of the finale episode, Aislinn cannot help herself but to go over and try to sit in, her bodhrn ever with her.

It is not long before she earns the right to sing one of her own. It is a song of reconciliation, of celebration, of common ground, of more than one kind of love. _"Before the night is over/Make your heart an open door/Then all we hold inside us/Won't divide us anymore/Before the night is over/And the time we have is done/Before our courage fades away/Let our hearts be bound as one."_

As she sings it, as viewers we begin to hear something slightly familiar about it. It holds subtly within it what we have come to recognize over the past season as Allan and Salima's musical theme.

The feeling of the night is, as said prior, one of an endless Christmas Eve, or perhaps a Christmas Day after presents have been open, in which there is nothing particularly to be done other than enjoy the company one finds oneself in. To eat, to drink, to spin tales into the night and laugh, wandering from group to group in contented fellowship.

The Hall's two fireplaces blaze large, and the dais between them (holding a grand chair meant for the King) stands empty more than it is filled. Richard is circulating just as the others, listening to tales, telling a few of His own, an eager ear, a willing partner in a dance, a King well-shifted (for the moment) from war general to domestic shepherd. His desire to learn all about what He might find before Him in England, to catalogue all of the outlaw's missions and experiences is quite unparalleled.

It is only Robin who has ever known Him very well (and, one might say, Salima) out of those of His honored guests that night. The sovereign encountered by the others was beyond all their expectation. And a far more jolly man, a man more willing to be pleased, than they had met in the Holy Land.

He even took His turn arm wrestling Little John. [He was righteously indignant (and quite loud in His protests) when the big man seemed to throw the match and let Him win.]

Marian and Robin are the only two decidedly _not_ circulating about the room. They remain a fixture near one hearth, Robin behind Marian so that he may simultaneously embrace both her and Henry, and watch them like a thirsty man might stare at the tap on a hand-pump well, waiting for the water to begin to flow.

He has missed too much time, he feels, demanding that Marian tell him the story of Henry's arrival over and over. He has even had the same story from Salima, now four times. Should Tristan come by where they sit, he will no doubt have it from him, as well.

For all that, Henry does little but sleep and nurse, though in either of these proceedings his father watches on as raptly as if the child were entering his first archery contest.

Marian has shared the story of Henry's name (and the longer, Marian-made compromise with it), and Robin could not be happier.

"My father served Old Henry," he said, "and you have put both your father and mine in the little man's name. Richard will be chuffed, I've no doubt, (for all that He and His father were often at odds) as Eleanor had the naming of him."

Robin could not be happier. With anything, with anyone. With his world, firmly on the cusp of being set right. The exact right people, also happy, all about him.

Though it was obviously Richard's feast, and a borrowed Hall, he felt it was his. Locksley Manor itself on that night could not feel more of home to him.

Fortunately there were servants a-plenty to bring the Huntingdons of Locksley meat and mead, for the Earl, and his family (his face nearly burst with pride at the thought) had no intention of moving from exactly where they were.

Much stands somewhat over by the hearth at the Hall's opposite end. He has found a fast friend (and great admirer) in the page Tristan, who has found in Much a willing storyteller, and a far less-intimidating link to Robin than Robin himself.

**Much:** [happy, pleased, eating] Better than Christmastide, don't you think?

**Tristan:** Is it true you are Robin Hood's best man?

**Much:** [swelling with pride, but curious][wipes his mouth with the back of his hand holding a chicken leg] And what makes you say that?

**Tristan:** That's what Llan-Allan said: Much, the truest of all Robin's men. His right-hand man, loyalest of the loyal.

**Much:** [suspicious] Allan? [trying to find the joke in it] He did? [stops to correct himself] Well, yes, yes, that is true. Certainly that is true.

Will and D'Jaq are clustered for the moment with Luke, listening to Aislinn sing. _"Some take their hope, and hide it away/It burns in the darkness, like gold in a grave/There's a spark inside, that can't be concealed/No hurt is so secret that it won't be healed."_

This night, after all, is really their first introduction to their new (to them) sister-in-law.

Michel it trying very hard not to listen, not to take his Asher's-Aislinn's-lyrics to heart, and so he has entered into a doomed-from-the-git-go drinking challenge with Little John and King Richard.

There is much to be told, many stories of long times apart, battles fought, with weapons or perhaps only words, many thoughts and hopes to share now among all present. But rather than a single telling, everyone seems to pass from cluster to cluster sharing and resharing their own account, and so the recountings (and, no doubt, the inaccuracies) of the past two years begin to multiply with each telling. And tales already mythic begin to slide toward legend.

But here we find the man himself, the spinner of tales (though most of his fall firmly into the 'fabliau' subset): Allan-A-Dale sits, for the moment mostly alone, his legs draped casually across his chair's arms, tankard in hand, watching the scene play out before him. The song Aislinn sings is new. He has not heard it before, and he wonders whether he might actually be in the mood to put himself forward to play one of his own later on.

His eyes, never long away from Salima, watch her leave the main Hall to fetch a clean napkin for little Henry.

Allan takes a drink.

Perhaps, after all, he _is_ beginning to understand how to see the world as a lover.

_"When I've lost my way, when nothing is clear/I've been afraid to love/I can face the night, find strength in your eyes."_

In the midst of all this merriment, the double wooden doors to the Hall burst open. Sir Gautier of Laurent-Thibault's powerful shoulder enters the space before he does. He roars, "Richard!" at the top of his lungs. [We must recall that Gautier is _Philip's_ knight, and though he may have a respect for Richard, Richard is not, in point of fact, his sovereign, nor has he any control over him (other than should he gain such control bodily by force). So Gautier has no ironclad compunction to treat England's king with any particular courtesy (although, generally, doing such is a good idea).]

At this turn of events, Coeur-de-Lion, to use the mildest of terms, is not pleased.

After the diaper change, at the hearth, Marian is now behind Robin, embracing him and Henry, her turn to watch father with son. At Gautier's threatening entry, Robin's entire body turns bow-string taut, as he attempts to keep himself between Marian and the threat, and tighten his hold on little Henry within his own arms.

Allan's feet were to the floor in a flash, ready to spring into action-some action, he did not know what. Salima had been visiting with Much and Tristan at the Hall's opposite fireplace. Allan had noted it was a cordial visit, and he found himself wondering how she knew Much, and how well.

He was a good man, Much. At Gautier's arrival he had stepped quite boldly in front of Salima, though in doing so he had nearly knocked her into the fire. A quick hand by Tristan was needed to rescue the hem of her gown from the dangerous coals.

_Better the fire than the Devil himself_, thought Allan, thinking of Gautier's dark purpose here.

Richard Plantagenet, King of England, sovereign by right of all _invited_ guests in attendance, and a man who did not like to be so surprised, nor to be so uncordially treated (even by His enemies), crossed the room with a growling confidence, an inborn nobility as sure as if He were at present wearing His Templar tabard, with cross and crest of three lions rampant.

It seemed to all He came to the chair on the dais that had been set aside for His use in only three great, majestic strides.

Angry, but no idiot, Gautier met Him there, stood below Him at floor-level, as was correct. [Richard, of course, is no newbie to what Gautier's beef is, it has been recounted to Him by more than one in Robin's party, and, even, at His request, by Salima herself.]

Richard speaks first, as any king must.

**Richard:** [grandly, like a true monarch] The time of war is now ended, the issue at hand [glances to Robin, who he knows is ready to fight if necessary] cannot be settled by combat. Therefore, We will adjudicate it. [indicates that Gautier may air his grievances]

_The King did not apologize for the inhospitable treatment Gautier had endured at Robin's hand, nor the stone-cold non-welcome he had received from Richard, Himself, in refusing to entertain him that night._

Someone's head will surely roll among Richard's staff for letting Gautier get past them and into the Hall, but Richard knows getting to the meat of this issue is now the swiftest way to resolve things, and quickest way to return to the party.

**Gautier:** The woman, commonly known as Salima, belongs to me. I will see her returned to me this night. [inclines head toward Robin] Locksley made as though you had given her into _his_ keeping, but I do not think this likely.

**Richard:** [speaking with statecraft, which is to say, bending the truth] Our Huntingdon was, We believe, somewhat mistaken. [He speaks this, though He knows Robin's mindset full-well at the time he spoke to Gautier, and would, Himself, have comported His royal person identically] We had only appointed the Sultana as nurse to the earl's wife, Countess Marian. An appointment of an indefinite timeframe, We should note. What would you present here as proofs of such possession of the Sultana, Our own loyal subject?

**Gautier:** She is marked. [his handless arm shoots out as though to indicate the spot, though Salima is, at the other end of the Hall, a good 20 yards away from him.] On her left thigh, she wears the letters of Laurent-Thibault.

_Richard's eyebrow rises at this announcement, given by Gautier proudly, for all to hear._

Allan closes his eyes for a moment, scrunching them at Gautier's grisly boast.

**Richard:** Have you no indenture papers, no marriage contract? Not, even, vouchers of unpaid debts requiring service rendered bodily?

_Gautier looks confused, turning to dismayed, as though Richard is about to trick him, though he cannot figure how._

**Gautier:** There is only my word, the marking, and the knowledge of any at camp during my service to Philip. Lauric himself will testify that he stole her from me, upon my injury.

**Richard:** [rationally, as though He is every bit persuaded] Very well, We shall grant your request this very night.

_Marian gasps from where she sits, and it is only Robin's tightly-sprung arm on her (and a word of confidence in the King he speaks into her ear) that prevents her from rushing to Richard's chair, ready to battle, or beg, whichever might prove most effective._

**Richard:** [again as though giving a speech or general address] We are come, returned from the Holy Land to heal Our people, to join them together, to let prosperity and good fortune reign. We have decided: We shall see this woman wed. For the gentle Lady Salima grows dangerously near to the age where it is unseemly for a woman to continue unmarried, and she has yet expressed no interest or calling to join Holy Orders. As We have reconciled a peace in the Holy Land, so choose We to reconcile you both here tonight. Come, Sultana.

_The room rings in silence (if silence could, in fact, ring). The musicians have ceased to play, conversation has died on the lips of all, and even the taking of breath has become particularly soundless._

Down the length of the Hall Salima came, a woman sleepwalking in a nightmare. Like Meryl Streep's Karen Blixen in Out of Africa, begging for land for her Kikuyu, so she drops to her knees at Richard's feet.

For a moment it seems as though, in earnest supplication, she might kiss them.

Allan-A-Dale now stands in front of his chair. During her ensuing speech he and the other outlaws (with the exception of the still seated threesome of Robin, Marian and Henry) begin to walk closer to where Richard holds his court, forming a small, but tightly-knit crowd behind Salima and Gautier.

As an audience we perhaps for a moment fear that the Sherwood Gang is on the verge of overthrowing the King, for whom they have so often vowed to fight.

**Salima:** [icily terrified, all but overcome with it] Majesty, I have only ever wished to serve you well. Have I not done so? Hiding the Countess Huntingdon, nursing her-and the unexpected child-as you bade me?

**Sir Gautier:** [in his outrage interrupting her] And what shall you be, then, _nursemaid_ to this Lady's child? Her other children? When you are barren as dry bones inside, your paps eternally empty of milk? What sort of wet nurse, then, might you make?

**Richard:** [sharply] Laurent-Thibault, still your tongue. For We will see this woman wed.

**Gautier:** This camp follower? This whore? This heathen Saracen-whelp of woman-dead Tornith's _maybe_-bastard daughter-this cur? [throws in some offensive Arabic for good measure] You think to trick me into wedding _this_? Into joining my immortal soul in holy wedlock to-that?

_At this spew of invective, Will has literally had to step in front of D'Jaq to prevent her from speaking up, or, quite possibly, slitting Gautier's throat._

**Gautier:** [still going][poisonously] She is no member of the Church, nor likely to be accepted as such. She has to bed with more men before my appearance and after my absence than I could well count should I yet have _both_ of my hands. [reaching here for anything that he can say to further impress upon Richard her sub-humanity][believes he's found just the thing. His voice rings out even louder so that none present could miss what he has to say] It is commonly known that while still a girl she birthed a child to Tornith's own brother, a congress not unlike that with Satan himself.

_Allan's fevered hand went for the comforting hilt of his dagger, but gripped naught but air within his vest pocket. It was, he had in the moment forgotten, no longer there._

**Richard:** [authoritatively][all but hissing the word] Silence, Laurent-Thibault, lest We lay the evils you have so dutifully begun to inventory for all here to witness at your own door.

**Gautier:** Philip will hear of this.

**Richard:** [scoffs] What, fancy you him, your king and liege, Agamemnon to your King Menelaus? Willing to hazard war over a woman? We, surely, are no son of Priam. And you, Gautier, you depend entirely upon Philip Augustus' enduring good will. One ought not shake such a Tree, lest it no longer continue to bestow fruit.

_Gautier reacts to this proclamation (every bit of it truth) like the Wicked Witch of the West does to a bucket of water: apprehension mixed with understanding._

**Richard:** We will see her married. [small smile] She is Ours to dispense with, as We choose. Surely you do not call into doubt this, Our sovereign right?

**Gautier:** [shaking his head] I will not do it. I will not consent.

**Richard:** Very well, you have heard Our judgment. [addresses the audience of the party now gathered before him] As have all here.

_A long silence falls over the company, for though the tension of the matter should be passed (the King not giving Salima into the hands of Gautier), there still seems to be drama at hand._

**Richard:** Who, then, will make offer to this woman?

Marian's mind tumbled over itself, ticking off on her fingers what to do, what she might be able to do to appease the King on the matter, to have Him stand-down His edict regarding Salima's future. Perhaps if she got Robin to speak with Him about Salima's earlier-expressed wishes for the rest of her life: service and companionship with them-at Locksley.

Tristan stood, wondering (as far outside his lord-father's will as he currently was at that moment) if entering into a marriage contract with a woman more than double his age-at the King's will, of course-would be entirely out of the question.

Much, his heart pounding throughout the entire exchange between Gautier and Richard (oh, wasn't He _magnificent_?) looked over to Robin and Marian, knowing by their faces the turmoil of Marian, the apprehension of Robin. As was his way, Much wished to allay those fears and concerns. Could he do this for them? Could he marry-oh, bollocks-of all people, the Lady Salima? After all, he had mostly reconciled himself to her odd ways, to her existence. _Mostly_. Still, she was a long way from the perfection of his Eve. Eve! How could he perjure himself so (to the King, at that?), even for the sake of Robin, when there was a prior claim on him, one to which he himself had consented, though it had not been made public?

Somewhere during his internal conflict Much had removed his hat, and stood twisting it in his hands, wretchedly, while his face easily showed to all his own quandary.

The silence lengthened.

D'Jaq turned to Will, her eyes telling him how desperately in that moment she wished her own twin brother yet lived (as she often did), but particularly here, as he might speak to accept, to do a good thing, and right what seemed such a quickly coming-on wrong. A wrong to the Lady Salima begun far away in Palestine, and here, in France, possibly to continue, perplexingly at Malik-Ric's behest.

The crushing silence in the Hall continues, but the soundtrack begins, quietly, almost too softly to hear, the theme now played longingly on a pennywhistle... _"Before the night is over...Before our courage fades away/Let our hearts be bound as one."_

From the tight-knit group of Sherwood outlaws standing behind Gautier and Salima at the foot of the King, Allan-A-Dale tenuously takes one step forward. Then, more confidently, another, until he is at Gautier's shoulder (Salima on Gautier's other side).

**Allan:** _I_ will.

_At hearing the voice and knowing it Allan's, Much, in the middle of taking a drink from his goblet to wet his dry, stressed-out mouth, does a spit-take._

Noises of general surprise and whispers of shock ripple through the crowd, from the dais back to each of the far walls, with their opposing hearths.

**Allan:** [flummoxed for a moment, trying to correct what he thinks is a deficit of propriety in his address, not understanding the wave of astonishment that went through those present] That is, I _do_. I _do_ offer myself: the, uh, sum of my pasts, glorious or in, to this woman, Majesty.

_He does not look at Salima, or at Gautier, only at Richard._

**Richard:** [pleased] Allan, well met. [to Salima, still on her knees][Richard stands, to better speak to his subjects] Allan-A-Dale offers to restore honor this day to the Sultana Salima, and shames Us. For his answer to such an outcry and need was immediate, while the tending to by her own King has been far too long in coming.

_Allan is not really able to take in what Richard is saying, all his concentration and energy already used up in his few words and fewer steps._

**Richard:** As this man, Allan-A-Dale, one October fourteenth saved the life of Our Robin, so he in turned saved the life that day of his King, Our own person. [looks down to Allan, places his hand on Allan's shoulder] As such is true, [quite suddenly switches into informal reference to Himself] I would gladly grant him any boon. [smiles]

_Allan smiles a little lopsidedly in turn. He thinks he just understood what Richard said._

**Richard:** [again giving orders] We will speak with the Lady Salima alone.

_Richard gives Gautier one look out of the lowest corner of his eyes, as though, 'you're still here? Really?' and the French knight finds himself escorted from the Hall and the estate by four of Richard's Own private guard._

* * *

Salima follows in Richard's wake, never raising her head while still among the company. They retire to a second-floor room for privacy. Once the door is closed behind them, Richard speaks.

**Richard:** [still formally] Will you marry this man if We wish it so?

**Salima:** Yes.

**Richard:** Just as you would have Laurent-Thibault?

**Salima:** [astutely glosses over answering the question of Gautier] I will marry this man if the King wishes it.

**Richard:** Marry, but also live with him as wife? A true and devoted 'wife of the heart'?

_Richard studies her expression for a moment._

**Richard:** For 'tis what he deserves. 'Tis what any man deserves-even, a king.

_A sort of moment of sadness passes over his face before he swallows it back down, and his next address to her is quite energetic._

**Richard:** What, Sultana, is your fitness, think you, your suitability to such a man, such a life as is his?

**Salima:** [concerned] You ask about my past, Sire?

**Richard:** [tenderly, dropping his formality as he often does with her] Were I but to choose to recall it to mind, Princess, I should know thrice more of your past than you yet do yourself. I ask the daughter of the great knight Sir Tornith, a Templar and baron with holdings in both Normandy and England, distinguished in battle and peacetime; and the daughter of his great love, the Sultana Sakina Sahar, a high princess among her family, a daughter of Sa'di, son to the legendary sultan and warrior Saif-Al-Din. Can a woman born twice-noble, a princess and lady find peace, find happiness with such a man as Allan-A-Dale? Allan of what father, what of his dam? We know not. Nor, perhaps, does he? [considers] I thought once that Sir Carter might have...but that was a battlefield, and now we are here. [indicates domesticity of the setting all around them]

**Salima:** [again, does not address his questions] But, Sire, why take such an interest in me now?

**Richard:** [staunchly, he is committed to this] I am come to set things right. If I cannot amend myself to you, Sultana, how am I then to correct the manner in which the least of my subjects have been treated in my absence?

**Salima:** I follow my king.

**Richard:** I would not say this to many, Salima, but I say it here: do not do so today at the expense of your own heart. I think I have failed many times to safeguard that for you when I might have done better. Do not let your king, in trying to reconcile Himself to you, only muck up things for you ''til death do you part'.

_Salima smiles. She is no fool at what an honor it is to have him say this to her._

**Salima:** I will do this thing. I will try to understand, to learn how to be a true 'wife of the heart'. But you must be told, Highness, Gautier spoke truly. There will be no further children, no continuation of Allan-A-Dale's line, no matter how ignominious such a line might seem to a King sired by Old Henry on Aquitaine's Eleanor.

**Richard:** Yes, it is perhaps best someone take the prospective bridegroom such news.

_Richard leaves Salima in the room and returns to the crowd and party (somewhat muted now with all that has taken place) below._

Allan has been brought to table by all there, to eat (as the food is again flowing out of the kitchen in record amounts). But no one quite seems to know how to treat him, and what he has done. All are pleased to know that Salima will not have to worry on Gautier's account any longer, but the current turn of events is hardly one they would have even imagined in their wildest dreams. Or one of Allan's bawdy tales.

Richard seems to expect the party to be back in full swing, and seats Himself at table (where He begins eating), to pick the brain of D'Jaq and others about what He sees as His match for Salima.

**Richard:** And what think you, Lady D'Jaq? [for in her own country, D'Jaq's family is of no small consequence] Is Allan-A-Dale the man for such a task?

**D'Jaq:** It is no secret he has made mistakes in his life, but he is a good man, and his mistakes, I believe, are behind him. I would trust him with my own life. But more importantly, I would trust him with Will's. Why ask you this of me, Sire? He is Robin Hood's man.

**Richard:** Aye, D'Jaq, but it is on behalf of her Saracen blood I consult your opinion on the match. And now I shall consult with your husband on the possible stumbling-blocks of cross-cultural matings.

**Will:** Hmmm. [sly, but cheekily] She is but _half_-Saracen, yes? So in the end, I can only say 'more's the pity', for Allan will have only half the satisfaction in his marriage.

_Raucous laughter erupts at Will's jest._

**Allan:** [aside to D'Jaq] What's with all this 'sultana' word being thrown around about Salima? [not sure if he should be wary of it]

**D'Jaq:** It means, 'princess'. Salima is a princess.

**Allan:** [utterly out of his depth][maybe a little freaking out] Wot?

**Richard:** [calling out to Robin where he still sits with Marian and Henry] And you, My Robin, My Huntingdon? What say you to such a match?

**Robin:** [as only he could get away with saying to the King] Only that such girlish prattle stalls the ceremony from occurring. Have on with it, and I shall stand ready to perform it, by rights.

**Allan:** [teases Robin] Ah, but you are not my lord. You recall, I am not _from_ Locksley. That were a mix-up.

**Robin:** [looking to Richard for His approval at the joke to come] Ah, but long have I been known, for good or ill, as Lord of Sherwood. I shall dower the lady and give her into your hands.

**Richard:** [laughing, well-pleased with the notion of Robin, Lord of Sherwood] Robin, you shame Us!

**Robin:** The Lady Salima should, by rights, not have to enter into her marriage penniless. Not after all she has done for my family [glows with use of the word]. I shall gladly place a sum of money upon her as though she were a very daughter of Huntingdon.

**Richard:** [still in a great mood][still at his erratic tending-to of his own] Nay! You show me up! I shall dower her. A small portion of her father, Tornith's holdings, I should think, will serve her well. And she shall serve Us better as vassal than his rightful children, I've no doubt.

_Marian excuses herself to help Salima prepare for the ceremony._

Aislinn draws the 'short straw' (not really, she volunteers) to go in to where Allan is now waiting out the final moments of his bachelorhood.

* * *

Allan is like a boxer before a big fight, he is all but bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready to 'go at 'em'.

**Aislinn:** [entering through the door, the moment has the feeling of a locker room before the big game] I am sent to say, on the King's own word, that you are to be told-should you with to withdraw your offer-that the Lady Salima is unable to have children.

_She swallows back any reference to the ugly accusation (truth) Gautier slung at Salima earlier in the night of the child born of incest._

**Allan:** Yeah, right, okay, good to know.

**Aislinn:** So, you'll be changing your mind, then?

**Allan:** What? No!

**Aislinn:** [trying to embolden him] We all agree. Robin _will_ be able to find a way out of this.

**Allan:** [confused] Robin?

**Aislinn:** [seeing that this is what it is, no matter what the other Sherwood outlaws think: this is Allan's wish][changing her tune] I cannot pretend to understand why you have agreed to this...why you put yourself forward.

**Allan:** [slyly] Perhaps it is all those 'love lovey loved-up' soliloquies you were always throwin' at me?

**Aislinn:** [scoffs, but good-humoredly] So I am somehow to blame in this?

**Allan:** [teasing] Well, innit a woman always to blame when a man takes on a desire to marry?

_He grins._

Aislinn cannot help herself. She grins back.

**Allan:** Look, understand it or not, I want this. I choose this.

**Aislinn: **At first sight, was it?

**Allan:** Fourth, actually. Took that long to see everything proper.

_He pinches the apple of Aislinn's cheek, just like the older brother he once told her he was to her, and seals the moment with a hug._

* * *

In the other occupied bedroom, Salima and Marian also have a moment together. Marian's demeanor is very similar to Aislinn's initially, but she does not speak of what Robin may or may not be able to convince the King to do. Nor does she offer other options, or ideas that there is something amiss in what is about to occur.

Upon opening the door to the room, and seeing her best friend's face, though she does not understand it, though she could not explain it to anyone else, or logically parse it out, she sees a deep peace in Salima's eyes. An emotion so deep that it was possible (quite possible) anyone not intimately familiar with her would not even mark.

**Marian:** I do wish happiness for you, Salima.

**Salima:** [not the only one who can read a close friend] You worry about Allan.

**Marian:** I worry about _you_.

**Salima:** [shrugs, but with a smile] It is not such a terrible thing to marry the man who betrayed Robin Hood, if it is not such a terrible thing for such a man to marry the...[doesn't say the word for Marian's sake]...of the Lionheart's Holy Land Court.

_She is worried that Marian disapproves, that her following the King's decree will be to go against Marian's best wishes for her. That Marian may not want her best friend wed to the man who once betrayed her husband-who betrayed her._

**Marian:** [utterly sincere] I do not believe Allan has been 'the man who betrayed Robin Hood' for some years now.

_Marian lays out the gown she has brought in with her. It has been extended from the lord of this borrowed Hall, at the King's request, and is old, and not particularly fashionable, as it had belonged to his deceased lady wife._

But it is of a pretty color, and the lacings will make it easy to cinch and fit it to Salima. There is, however, no jewelry to go with it.

**Marian:** Would that I had some ornament for you at such a time. But how could I know when leaving Philip's castle that Lady Matilda's baubles might come in handy at a wedding? [looks down at her own attire: still her breeches and menswear]

_Salima takes Marian and kisses her on the cheek._

**Salima:** I shall wear you and Henry and all that you have done-and risked-for me, like a brooch over my heart. It shall prove more than enough.

_There is a knock at the door. Marian goes to answer it. It is Robin, with Henry in his arms. Marian is surprised, and gives him a look like, 'really, you couldn't take care of him on your own for that long'?_

**Robin:** [for some reason, whispers, as though the occasion is sacred] I beg a word with the bride.

_Marian is surprised, but gives way, taking Henry off with her._

**Robin:** [calls after Marian] Do not, my Lady, go too far! Recall: you are at learning to stay where last I left you! [turns back to Salima. He becomes, for a moment, very much an earl at Court][enters doorway] Lady, I would not have you believe the actions of Allan are rooted only in a single moment of thought this day. By my faith it is not so.

_Salima listens._

**Robin:** You have been a fixture in his mind some months now. I do not believe his offer today to be rash. [smiles in that beguiling way] And I wish you to enter into this covenant with him of clear heart. _And..._

_From some inner pocket, Robin pulls out a stunning set of matching baubles: bracelets, two rings and drop earrings, all of carnelian, that he had been carrying among some Sherwood booty to sell (necessarily) along the gang's way to bankroll their trip to meet Richard. (Much of the gang's loot tends to be of this nature rather than coin.)_

It has been rare for him to speak to Salima in the way we see him charm others (their times together have often been so fraught), but here he does. Here he is classic Robin.

**Robin:** Those, [points to them, now in Salima's hands] are from a particularly haughty Norman Viscountess who, upon her own bridal trip through Nottinghamshire met with some trouble along the Sherwood road. [sheepish look] I regret only that I have no necklace to match it. [smiles] _That_ piece is long gone to repair the roofs of all in Wadlowe, replacing also several cows, following a harsh summer storm. [rubs his hands together] Now, may I ask whom you might have in mind to do the honor of giving you away? And how I might best put myself forward for that very position?

* * *

_It is Much whom Salima requests bring her down to the company. A request at which even Robin cannot be chagrined. As Salima and Much descend the stairway to the Hall below, Much, who is quite flattered (at this point) by her wishing to come down on his arm, finds he has something to say._

**Much:** [regarding Allan] You know, if you hurt him...

**Salima:** [cuts him off before the threat can be fully voiced] You are a good friend, Much. And a good man. I have long known this to be true.

_She is looking away from him, down the stairs to where they are walking._

**Much:** [feeling his past shortcomings to her quite fully in this moment] I think I have perhaps not always behaved so toward you...

**Salima:** I have always known that I could depend on you should ever the need arise.

**Much:** [blushes, almost stops walking] Why...thank you.

**Salima:** [nearly to the last step, now] Now please, I beg you, remove your hat.

_Much snatches it quickly off his noggin, trying with his free hand (her arm is on the other) to smooth his hair. The results of this action, are, at best, mixed._

* * *

The Hall was not greatly changed from when Allan and Salima had last left it. There was no time for anything much beyond utter simplicity. What candle stands and tapers there had been had been carried to the center of the Hall, surrounding the dais on which sat King Richard's great chair. The dual hearths were then left to dimly illumine the far corners. The kitchens had been notified to roll in their best wine and ale, and Little John had been dispatched to taste and settle on which would prove the best for toasting.

Aislinn had quickly learned all the minstrels present on a single song they might play in unison when the bride appeared on the arm of her escort, Much.

Marian had chased Will and Luke Scarlet outside to cut lengths of early Spring greenery that she and D'Jaq might weave into crowns for the bridal couple.

King Richard had sought out His own crown and placed it on His noble brow, and was even now overseeing His clerk's drafting of the transference of Salima's modest dowry (by way of removing it from the possession of her father's legitimate children) into her name.

Robin was walking the floor with Henry over one shoulder (almost dangerously too far over, Marian worried), humming a tune from his childhood he thought he had forgotten.

Tristan was partnering Allan nearby where the King stood, unable to still his tongue, so many questions, so many amazements tumbled out. In response, the best Allan could manage was a general air of pleasantly being overwhelmed, unable to look anywhere but to the bottom of the stairs.

Richard sighted Much and Salima first, and moved Himself in front of the chair centered on the dais. At His movement Aislinn cued the players, and the start of the music indicated to all that they were about to begin.

The bride wore a dress of creamy yellow, soft and reflecting the light. Its modest neckline concealed the still-angry marking bruise put there by Gautier. The neckline, narrow sleeves and less-full skirt were far from the style of the day, but the lack of ornamentation to the gown only served to more fully show the exquisite form and figure of the lady on Much's arm who modeled it.

The bridegroom wore a burgundy velvet vest, borrowed from the King, somewhat too large in size and too rich in its fashion not to raise eyebrows anywhere but here.

Much brought Salima as far as the foot of the dais, and at a look from Richard, returned her arm to her, heartily shaking Allan's hand before stepping back among the Sherwood crowd, who now seemed more like congregants in a church than revelers at a feast.

Allan and Salima faced the King. Robin and Marian, each with a floral crown in hand, stood behind them. Henry had for the moment found his way into the utmost safety of Little John's warm embrace.

**Richard:** Who brings this woman to marry this man?

**Marian:** We do. [she does not say it, but she means to indicate herself, Tristan, and Henry]

**Richard:** And who brings this man to marry this woman?

**Robin:** [joined by every outlaw in his response] We do!

**Richard:** Then as your King, your sovereign, and loyal friend, We proceed.

_Robin and Marian hold their places (mirroring Allan and Salima's) behind the couple, the floral crowns raised over (but not yet resting on) the couple's heads. In all this the Earl and his Countess look only at each other, smiling twitterpated smiles, as though this moment is as much theirs as the bride and groom's._

Richard turns to Salima and extends His hand to her, palm up. She places her right one inside it.

**Richard:** Sultana, daughter of the great Tornith and high-Sultana Sakina Sahar, granddaughter of Sa'di, great-grandaughter of Sultan Saif-Al-Din: at your King's express wish, will you accept this man as your husband? Live with him in peace and in the happiness of a common, shared homelife?

**Salima:** Yes, my King.

_Richard takes the hand she has given Him and indicates for Allan to extend his own and take it from Him. Allan does so._

**Richard:** Allan-A-Dale [he stalls out, not aware of any progenitor illustrious enough to be named in Allan's dubious bloodline][clears his throat]...Robin Hood's man, as you earlier put yourself forward as willing, will you vow here, before all present, to protect the lady Salima as though she were your own flesh-for she will momentarily become so-to promise her every safety in your power to provide, and pledge to love and honor her above all other women in a state of perpetuity?

_"Make your heart an open door/Before our courage fades away/Let our hearts be bound as one."_

Allan turns away from his King. His movement causes Salima to avert her gaze as well. They look at each other face to face (at the same time-not simply a stolen glance) for probably the first time since Allan stepped forward to commit to wedding her).

**Allan:** [making sure he has her full attention] I, Allan-A-Dale, son of Ruby, a good woman, who loved each of her children, no matter how many there were, and, [shrugs] probable son of George, a tanner, do vow here, before all present, to protect the Lady Salima as though she were my own treasured flesh, to promise her every safety in my power to provide, and I do pledge to love and honor her above all other women, time without end. [he swallows and adds] Never a jot less than in this moment. [returns his gaze to Richard] Your Majesty.

_Behind them, Robin and Marian take each other's free hands, as Marian's tears fall on her happy cheeks. They place the floral bridal crowns on bride and groom and step away from the dais, melting back into the crowd to stand near Little John, still holding their son._

Richard produces a silken scarf from somewhere on His person and loops it over and around Salima and Allan's joined hands until they are symbolically knit together by it.

**Richard:** Then what God-and your King-have joined here together this night, let no man-none present nor none in all Heaven's Creation-_ever_ put asunder.

_He adds a blessing in Latin that no one, really, but Marian (and maybe Robin) understand, but that all feel most reverent at hearing._

Everyone stands around for a moment, happy, but seeming to be waiting for something. Allan and Salima look at one another, their hands still trapped together in the scarf that Richard has not yet removed.

The King looks at them expectantly.

**D'Jaq:** [in a loud whisper, she is one of those closer to him] Allan-now is the time-you must kiss her. To seal this pact.

_The Sherwood Gang (you can't take them anywhere, really, their manners so rusty from all that time in the woods) begin to chant, "Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss" over and over again._

Allan and Salima lean in slowly, almost tenuously toward each other, and manage an incredibly chaste kiss on the lips (more like a bumping into of lips, really) that could not possibly have lasted beyond three seconds.

Nonetheless, the room explodes in cheers, with the King shouting over the escalating celebration: "Gaudeamus igitur!"

In quieter tones, as Richard un-binds their hand (literally only, figuratively they are, of course, now, bound for life) they have a moment to whisper and confess something to each other.

**Salima:** I know little of being a wife.

**Allan:** [grins] And I less, of being a husband.

It proves to be the last _real_ moment of private interaction they are able to share with one another. The party that ensues is a fairly public one, a quite loud one, one soaked in spirits of one kind or another and loaded with victuals of many and various sorts-a seemingly endless banquet that would have made a Viking jealous. And would have sent a Roman in and out of the room many times over.

* * *

It was never clear to Allan who began it, but at some point, well before the rest of the gang was ready to yet bed down for the night (for all that their bellies ached with a surfeit of grub and their heads swam like fish bowls of French wine), a consensus was reached that it was, in point of fact, time long-overdue to put the happy couple to bed.

Marian cleverly _did_ see it coming, and managed to steer Salima into the upstairs room the King had given up in favor of them that night (Himself deciding to see the party to its end and sleep among the revelers on the Hall's floor once the tables and benches were stowed), a few minutes before the gang began searching for her to carry up beside Allan.

King Richard watched on in merry amusement as Little John, Will and Luke and Robin were each tasked with subduing one of Allan's appendages as they carried him (a bit as though he had just stage-dived onto them) up the stairs and toward the door behind which his new wife waited.

**Allan:** Come on, chaps-I can yet still walk!

**D'Jaq:** [from under his back, the section she has ended up supporting] Ah, it is not that so much that worries us.

**Aislinn:** [finishing the thought] It is more that we want to make certain that it is the _right_ door you arrive at this, of all evenings.

**Robin:** [just got a heel in his eye] Come on, Lover Boy. Steady on. [chuckles] 'Tis naught to fear.

**Much: **[uncharacteristically, for him-making the others fall silent in shock at his naughty speech] We shall none of us even pretend to notice on the morrow should you appear a bit...saddle sore.

_All stop in their walking, as the hard silence lengthens at what has come out of all mouths, Much's._

Will tries to save it for him.

**Will:** [to Allan] As one married man to another? Keep your 'entertaining' stories of your bachelor escapades from her 'til after the wedding breakfast.

_Looks at D'Jaq, her eyebrow raised in pretend disapproval._

**Will:** [playing at the brow-beaten husband] Or, you know, longer.

_All laugh (including Will and D'Jaq)._

There is a great deal of noisy racket as Allan is then deposited in the room by the gang, who instead of immediately returning to their tankards, choose to stand outside the door and rowdily shout, and perform some slightly tipsy version of singing. For more than a few minutes. 


	57. And On

**A/N:** _I should not make promises I won't keep. Because the next section (as I wrote it) came out solidly in the "R" rating area for the MPAA [people! It's Allan, after all!], and the "T" rating here is for 13 years and over, I've posted what I wrote under the "M" rating here as "_The Wedding Night of Allan-A-Dale_".  
[Because if I changed the rating on the entire story it would disappear entirely from general searches unless those searching specifically called it up by looking for "M" rated material.]  
So, read the *very* stripped down edit of this chapter below, or search out the other complete one, and come back for Chapter 58 and the grand finale. [If you don't know how to search for M-ratings, just follow the link to the other 'story' that should appear on my bio page.]_

* * *

The room is large, its fireplace oversized, its bed canopied. For a moment he does not see her.

**Allan:** I'm not as drunk as you might think I am.

_Salima has removed the jewels Robin gave her, and her feet are bare beneath the hem of the borrowed dress she wears. With Marian's help she has taken down her hair and it has been brushed out, black as pitch against the color of the gown._

Allan holds out his hands to try and illustrate to her that he's not pickled, but the heady sight of her before him incites an intense tremor in one of them.

**Allan:** No, see, now, that's not the wine...that's...

_He spoke truly. It was not the wine. But he found he did not easily know how to explain to her what it was. After all, she had done what she had done this day on the demand of her King._

It was not the same as though she had stepped forward in a Hall among threat of an enemy, in a foreign country, in front of all her best mates and declared of her own free will that she would have him.

**Salima:** It is a lot to have happen in a single day.

**Allan:** You can say that again.

_Her eyes flicked up, almost a question about the corners of their clear greenness, flicking up to his._

**Allan:** [his shoulders collapsing] No, wait. This is coming out all wrong.

**Salima:** And how should it come out?

**Allan:** That...this night need be nothing more, or less than you wish it.

_The lads beyond the door reached an almost dog-like howl in their pickled serenade._

**Allan:** [pointing to the door] Ignore that.

**Salima:** [slight frown] You offer to release me from the marriage?

**Allan:** No, I mean, that is, that would be something only the King or, like, the Pope could do, right? I only...I [speaks quickly to run it all together] offer to release you from what the lads, there, [again gestures to the door] are expecting.

**Salima:** But if I understand English customs, and I think that in this instance I do, unless we proceed as expected, all that King Richard spoke tonight, what I, and what you said before the gathered company-none of that matters, yes? Unless...the expected? [she glances in the opposite direction of the door, instead, to the bed]

_He breathed in slowly and fully through his nose._

**Allan:** So we are...

**Salima:** [reasonably] To proceed as any Englishman and his bride might on just such an occasion.

**Allan:** [a spark returning to himself] Mind you, I think on just such an occasion, at just such a time of night most English gentlemen are too pissed to proceed, and most Englishwomen-rather relieved by that fact.

**Salima:** And so you are too...'pissed'?

**Allan:** Naw. I am only...nervous.

_A look came over her face that was somewhere between bemused and skeptical. This man, at this juncture-nervous?_

**Allan:** It's just I've never done this before.

**Salima:** [whispers] Wh?

**Allan:** [keeping her eye contact] With someone I truly care about.

**Salima:** [her lips came together in almost a smile] Then it would seem we are both similarly handicapped.

_Now it is his turn to be bemusedly curious._

But she did not share all her life and experiences with him at that time, as he did not share all his life and experiences with her at that time. There would be time for such recountings and revelations later.

Marian had, at Salima's request, helped her unthread the gown's lacings before Marian had left her alone. As Allan, this unfamiliar, nervous Allan, held to his ground somewhere mid-way between the door and the bed, she undid herself. The soft fabric of the borrowed gown took naught but a moment or two to part with her skin.

* * *

Salima wished, at this time, to be totally transparent with him. It would not do to begin things with confusion or mistaken ideas. So she told him the obvious; "My innocence has been lost, long past."

In response Allan did not say that it did not matter, nor that he did not mind. He did not (as some might) bid her speak of it no more, nor forget it.

For it did matter. It was a truth, a part of her story, a piece of who she was. For him to silence her on it (even due to good intentions), even though it hurt a part of him to hear it, would have been wrong. In a way, judgmental, even. He was not about to silence her, or attempt to diminish the tragedies of her life in an effort to kiss and make them better, nor belittle or lessen them so that they became little more than straw bogeymen.

He would stand by her, he would go into the future with her; living through it the only way he knew of to reclaim/confront/overcome the past.

Salima did not know in that moment, but she would learn in the times after, that Allan was more than sympathetic to the path of a woman who had found it necessary to compromise herself in order to make her way in the world-or to a woman who had been repeatedly forced into such situations beyond her control, beyond her ability to resist, as she had no protector, no family, no standing in her society's culture.

That night proved to be just the beginning of her education on the matter. For she was learning...just because something once, or even, many times, had been taken from her against her will...did not mean the same thing could not also be freely given...by her choice.

When the act of marital consummation had finished, Salima moved to disengage herself from his arms. (Certainly this was the expected behavior when she had been with other men.)

"Oh, no," Allan begged her, "stay. Please, stay."

She made no response in words, but examined the sentiment in his eyes, which appeared true, and held her position.

Salima found herself, quite surprisingly, trailing her hand through the back of his hair, playing with it at the nape of his neck.

By the time she realized he had passed into sleep, she found herself in a heretofore unexperienced situation: she was fast within his embrace, and every time she made even the slightest move to disengage herself from it, he stirred as though he would wake.

She could not bear the thought of waking him from his slumber any more than she could have borne similarly disturbing a sleeping little Henry.

And so she managed to subtly lower them both, still embracing, onto the bed, and herself, even now yet surprised at the events of the day, bewilderingly happy, and somehow married, succumbed to sleep, still wrapped within his arms.

* * *

+

* * *

The next morning, Allan wakes to the sound of a serving girl, confused to be confronted with a barred door.

"My lady," she called (for surely she did not know how to address Allan), "the wedding breakfast is all set. Your guests already at table..." She waited for an answer, for the door to be unbarred. When neither presented itself, she moved along on her way.

Allan's heart was cold with dread. With the foregone assumption that last night was just that-the last night he'd ever know Salima in such a way. He had studiously avoided telling her that he loved her. He felt quite strongly that declaration need be, in this situation, kept as far from carnal acts as possible. But though he loved her, though he had won (so Richard had said) her consent to wed, he was under no false (or so he thought) impressions about her feelings toward him.

Certainly they would get on, the two of them. He would do all in his power to make a happy, safe life for the both of them. But this woman, now, impossibly his wife, how could she look at a man? How could she love or care for the heart of a man after the life she had lived-the abuse she had even so very recently (as her bruised body showed in the daylight) suffered?

He could see, though he had said nothing to her, that her body spoke to him of more than one babe conceived there. Yet she had said there were no children, no others to ever be expected. And so, another sorrow, another loss she had had to bear.

He nearly caught himself wishing he had not so let her consent to lie with him the night before. Almost. Nearly. But then, their marriage consummated, he could only assume they would now, at her desire, live as brother and sister, his feelings toward her utterly unrequited.

It was not an encouraging belief. And because of just this belief, he scorned any movement that might disturb these last, stolen moments, her softness against him, the two of them utterly undivided as yet.

He did not know how long he lay there, happily content with, and already nostalgic for the position he found himself in, this wife, _his wife_ so near him.

"There is a saying among Saracens," he heard Salima speak.

She was still directly beside him, resting on her side, he on his back. Their clothes still cast off, neither had moved all night, not even to drape any bed coverings over themselves. His right arm is yet about her, his hands can feel the length of her hair as it has spread out upon the mattress.

"It says, 'the hours before dawn are stolen from Paradise.'"

Allan asked, all he could do to keep his voice from breaking. "So, this Paradise you speak of. Are we traveling there this morning? What of the breakfast we have been called to?"

"If the words you spoke to me-to your King-yesternight were true, then we will have time in abundance for talking, and for breakfasts upon breakfasts."

"Then kiss me," he said, wanting her to do so, as in all their actions of the evening prior she had not once done so, their mouths (save at the public kiss confirming their joining) yet as strangers from one another.

* * *

By the time they, as the to-be-feted guests of honor, arrived to the wedding breakfast, the food proved, not tryin' to be funny, quite cold. 


	58. Ad infinitum

****

SCENE: the Hall. Richard has had to ride out (very early) to inspect his growing troops. At table below the wedding guests wait for the bride and her groom to join them at breakfast. They have been staring at the food set out for them now for going on forty-five minutes. ****

Little John: [as if an excuse for their lateness] Well, 'tis Allan. ****

Will: [wincing slightly] And he is not timed by the quarter hour, as he might be at the Trip... ****

Much: I say we eat. ****

Robin: I say we wait. ****

Much: Very well, I say _you_ wait. I, I shall eat. It is what they would wish us to do. ****

Marian: [her own romantic exertions of the night before coupled with being a nursing mother causing a hungry belly] It _is_ what they would wish us to do. ****

Aislinn: I daresay their minds are not a bit engaged with thinking on _us_ at all. ****

Luke: [teasing her] You speak from experience, Wife? ****

D'Jaq: [because no one present was in attendance] I do not think Will and I saw another person after our wedding for three whole days. ****

Will: [snorts] They actually took to leaving food on a tray outside our rooms.

_Robin and Marian share a knowing look, recalling that their wedding had not such an immediate happy ending, but knowing they would take every present opportunity to make up for lost time. And lost happiness._ ****

Little John: [remembering fondly] The morning after I wed Alice I was up before dawn. I brought home six of the finest trout ever speared in the East Midlands. [pauses for effect] Of course, I was not so schooled at being a married man yet, so I did not pause to notice that what was meant to be a gift instead turned into Alice, the first morning of her life as my wife, up to her elbows in fish guts before dawn, still in her shift, as she cleaned and cooked all six!

_There is good-hearted uproarious laughter._ ****

Little John: She was still the prettiest bride I have ever yet seen.

_No one begrudged him for not excepting present company after such a glowing remark._ ****

Much: [still fussing] Well, I should never forget _my_ guests so. ****

Allan: [his voice is heard though he is not yet seen] No, Much, I would not think you would.

_Applause and huzzahs are heard. Allan and Salima descend the stair into the Hall, seating themselves rather demurely at the places laid for them._

More than one stolen glance is thrown at the couple-particularly Allan, who has never yet seemed so awake in anyone's memory after such a night's revel. In fact, of the gang (with the exception of the women members) he looks far less worse for wear than the others, most of whom are at least slightly hung-over, though generally good-naturedly so.

All commence to eat. ****

Robin: [to Tristan, who is seated, quite in awe, beside him] Young Master, why the long face? My lady informs me you are the most jovial of boys. [indicates the happy couple] Like you not the match found for the Lady Salima? ****

Tristan: It is well enough, I suppose. I am happy for her and Llanio-Allan. It is my own troubles that tax me. ****

Richard: [He has just returned to join them] Troubles? From what troubles might a page suffer?

**Tristan:** It is only, Your Highness, that I did not know I would lose my lady. ****

Richard: _Your_ lady? ****

Tristan: To Robin Hood.

_The King laughed a huge belly laugh._ ****

Richard: Ah, yes, I have been meaning to speak with you about that. As your father has assigned you to the royal Court, and therefore you serve as pleases the Crown, We thought to inform you that in your new post of squire (for We understand the Countess Marian-Matilda that was-so promoted you) you will be relocated to Nottinghamshire, to the Locksley estate, under our knight, Sir Robin, Earl of Huntingdon. As it please the King.

_Tristan's eyes went from Richard the Lionheart on one side of him to Robin Hood, Earl of Huntingdon on the other. And back again. His face flooded with color, and he begged leave to immediately go and re-check his pack, to ensure that he had forgotten nothing that might be needed on his coming journey out-of-country._

* * *

"Majesty," asked Allan-A-Dale, standing from his seat, "is it not usually customary for some trinket to be presented to the bride during the ceremony?"

"Why, yes, Allan, that is often the way."

"Well, I have sommat that I will give," he almost stalled out on being able to say it, "my wife. Though I am no prince, to match her sultana whatnots."

He extended his hand, open and palm up to Salima, who placed hers into it, also palm up.

He pulled out the two rubies he had long ago pried from his dagger, and placed them in her hand. They were big as cherries, and fire red, their cabochon cut rendering them smooth as polished amber.

"I shall have Ash make them in to something for you-a ring, or necklace."

"If I may, I think I should like them back where they best belong," Salima replied, seeing them feeling like meeting up with two old friends. (Though these two were not the same ones with which she was most-familiar; those lay with Carter, in the sand near Acre.)

She pulled Allan's dagger from a deep pocket inside her bliaut, its golden hilt a-shine as it no longer wore the covering of the leather thong.

D'Jaq smiled to again see it. Aislinn stretched out her hand for the blade and the stones, to consult with Luke and see how difficult it might be to re-set them.

Robin remarked that it had been some time since he had seen the fine blade, and grinned that now he knew the reason why.

Much, upon sighting it, turned quite flustered. "But how, now, Allan-do you rob your own friends?"

"Easy now, wot's that?"

"This is the very blade I gave to Carter before he left us to find the King. The very blade. In memory of Thomas, his brother, I told him. How else could you come by it but that you lifted it from him in one of your _weaker_ moments?"

"Peace, Much!" directed Robin, his voice firm. "I gave this dagger to Allan myself," his voice dropped as though he would rather not speak the next words, "shortly before he left us in Sherwood."

"And do you recollect, Robin, if there were not more than one like it in said chest?" It was Richard.

"No, Your Majesty, I do not recollect. I do know this has a peculiar etching on the blade."

The King stretched forth His hand to take the dagger in it. "Then you are both right." He unsheathed the dagger, running His thumb along the Arabic script. "_Salima_," He said, indicating that was its pronunciation.

"Safety, wholeness," spoke D'Jaq.

"Yes, Lady," He agreed, nodding His head with a smile. "Ourself, We have not seen this steel in many, many years, but its craftsmanship is far from a stranger to Us. How felicitous that it would find its way back into the hands of the Sultana." The King smiled, wistfully. "'Twas a gift, a parting token of your mother's. The Sultana Sakina Sahar had exquisite twin daggers cast for Tornith, the father of her then-unborn child. She adorned them with four rubies from her own diadem. Much like her own, fabled beauty, they were the envy of all who laid eyes on them. Tornith carried them with him always, to his death." The King cleared his throat, as though himself coming out of a dream, a tale of a hero of his own boyhood. "I wonder, does any 'outlaw' here recall upon whose person these fine blades came to be found passing through Sherwood?"

But no one did.

It was the first tale Salima had ever heard of its like, where her parents were presented as two equals, as lovers who loved well, though perhaps (for their times) none too wisely.

She hoped that any tales that might ever be told of herself, of Allan, of their new life together, might ring just as true.

And that the day might come (she could almost, now, envision its dawning-much like that of this day) where she could fully claim all that her name implied, all that her mother (a shade, a shadow, a barely-there presence for her) had wished to endow her with: safety, peace, wholeness.

The Sultana Salima looked to Allan-A-Dale, still standing, her hand still in his. He smiled down at her, entirely unaware of the present workings of her mind.

"That is all good and well," he informed her, informed the company assembled. He gave a sideways wink to Aislinn. "But can you cook?"

"Not English food," Salima answered, truthfully, beaming up at him, at her husband, and when she laughed with the others, it was frothy, light, and utterly unfettered.

* * *

Theirs was to be a happy match, a match well-made (the King always claimed it publicly as entirely His own doing), yet a match that utterly stumped and confounded those around them for many years. Even Marian, who perhaps knew both of them best, could not quite make peace with understanding it. (Though she respected it, and her friend, never speaking to Salima of her reservations.)

Robin, who best knew Allan's own mind before entering into the matter proved to be the couple's truest defender. He pronounced them perfection. His chest swelled the largest to know how well his 'merry man' had chosen, and his own heart kindled warm at the thought of another of his Forest brethren finding a lasting happiness so like his own.

King Richard forbore knighting Allan-A-Dale, thinking to make use of him in future as an intelligence broker, an invaluable, yet, clandestine, asset. But with the King's death, this new path proved short-lived.

Nonetheless, Salima learned many things from her husband. She laughed regularly, until tiny wrinkles of happy times sprouted at the corners of her eyes. She learned love, of a different kind than Marian and Henry had taught her.

She learned sacrifice-in that Allan happily kept them close enough to Robin and Marian and Henry that she need never pass a day without seeing the child, even when, in the early times of their marriage, it meant Allan was far distant, working for Richard, when he would have much more preferred to have her along, rather than parted with her at Locksley Manor.

_"No hurt is so secret that it won't be healed/Before the night is over/And the time we have is done/Before our courage fades away...Let our hearts. Be bound. As one."_

And finally, she learned healing, and belief, when, five years into her marriage her body resumed its regular courses-until they ceased, only to be followed by the blessing, some nine months later, of twin boys, birthed at Locksley Manor. Lady Marian and the woman Gwyn her only attendants, Allan himself present, not willing to wait (as was expected) outside. His own, lissom hands catching each of his two, strong lads: Carter, and, of course, Robin.

Robin Hood himself had only just gotten used to Allan-A-Dale, 'father', and himself having a namesake, when a scant year and some months later little Llania Sabriyya made her appearance. Even as an infant a rare beauty, her features were only enhanced by having inherited her father's impossibly long eyelashes. She held every heart in Locksley tightly 'round her little finger, Tristan at 18, her two brothers and even Henry (some six or more years her senior) easily bent to her every will.

And in all this, Salima's looks and spirit aged as a fine wine is said to, through fermentation: of closeness to others, of knowing herself safe and cared for, of giving and being loved, and the everyday miracle of having found the person she wished to travel on just such a journey with.

* * *

As for the Huntingdons of Locksley, the long-ago May faire sage had spoken true to Robin, for there always was an air of mystery surrounding the child Lady Marian returned with to Sherwood Forest. And though no friend to Robin and Marian for a moment doubted the boy's true parentage, many a by-stander offered the opinion, nay, the belief that the hero Robin Hood and his Lady fair, Marian _had_ no children. Others professed knowledge that the child was, in fact, King Richard's, or, even, an ethereal gift to the outlaw and his bride from the faery folk within the 'Wood.

And though his name, this child of such extraordinary and legendary parents, has been lost to us over time, Henry Yeoman, fourth Earl of Huntingdon as was, lived a quiet life, peaceably, a good life, a life happily unfamiliar with want, with oppression or outlawry (save in the well-circulated song tales of Aislinn Scarlet and Allan-A-Dale), and in the end, perhaps that was the best reward his parents might have for their struggles here on earth: that their child (for they never had another) lived to happily, to contentedly reap the harvest of justice, of fair rule of law, of hope and compassion their self-sacrifice and love of a greater good had made possible.

For that is the best thing of which any parent, even the most heroic, yes, _even Robin Hood_, can dream.

}}->

_- - The End - -___


End file.
